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Quaking before the toy box beast

Submitted by on Monday, 27 July 2009 No Comment

I’ve pitched cake pans and ditched dolls. I’ve sent away clothes old enough to drink and purged enough paperwork to give me nightmares about the forests felled to create it..

I’ve cleared one closet of its graveyard of “I might need these some day” computer components, and I’ve cleaned craft supplies from three states ago from another.

I’ve hauled eight carloads to Goodwill – and I have a huge trunk – and my garbage can refills hours after the truck runs on Wednesdays.

I’ve thinned art supplies, neatly organizing the survivors in plastic boxes, and I’ve weeded out glassware that we thought we needed back when Dad was in bartending school.

We’re now about a week away from the big move and there’s only one more thing to tackle. A creature more frightening than Sasquatch, Freddy Krueger and the Barney song all rolled into one.

Big Guy’s room. The Hotel California of Toys, where little has left in more than a year except a scant few things clearly meant for babies.

And the guys are determined that it stay that way.

I took a run at it a few months back, handing the guys plastic grocery bags and asking them to fill them. They found two items each they were willing to part with.

Big Guy and I tried again a few weeks after that as Boots slept one afternoon. We made better progress, filling a 13-gallon trash bag with baby books and stuffed animals that mostly were hand-me-downs from me. How brave of you to donate my stuff, Big Guy.

I’ve also conducted a few covert operations, slipping colored-up coloring books into the trash. I’ve stealthily palmed many a Happy Meal toy.

Feeling particularly impetuous one night, I stuffed a 30-gallon bag full of Fisher Price and animals, though my heart leaped with guilty fear every time a noise-maker went off. I pictured the guys waking to see me as the Grinch to their innocent Little Cindy Loo Whos, robbed of their precious playthings as they dreamed.

Between two recent birthdays and Build-A-Bear trips, though, the stock still has grown. And every bit, of course, is much loved. Even if they haven’t touched it in six months.

The day of reckoning has arrived. Another 30 gallons must go. It shouldn’t take more than six hours.

That’s still undershooting the mark, though. If the moving company should happen to “lose” a box of Thomas track somewhere around Bakersfield, I swear I won’t file a claim.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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