I am in an ongoing, losing war with paper.
Stacks and stacks of it enter my home every week. Though I win some of the daily battles — Seven new catalogs? Recycle them right away! — by the end of the week, I feel defeated. Bills, magazines (many of them unsolicited), ads, financial statements, field trip permission forms, summer camp registration forms, spelling lists, guided reading logs.
My strategy to toss as much as possible the moment it comes through the door is often thwarted by the youngest member of the family. When Katie brings schoolwork home from kindergarten, she is, without fail, proud of her efforts and certain that every single page should be saved forever.
We sit together at the kitchen table, and Katie describes the work required for each page. She reads words aloud and explains her drawings. Sometimes she provides commentary on what was going on in the classroom while she was creating a particular piece.
I tell her what I especially like, praise her quality work and set the stack aside, placing perhaps one favorite on top. Then, when she’s in the playroom or outside, I grab the papers, post one on the refrigerator and recycle the rest.
Our recycling box is right out in the open. Anyone walking through the kitchen can spy plastic bottles, cans, discarded newspapers, cardboard and — gasp — old schoolwork.
Most of the time I bury Katie’s work way under other items. If I’m lucky, there’ll be an empty cereal box in there; its insides are the perfect vessel for disguising paper. But if I’m in a hurry or there’s nothing to cloak my intentions, discarded worksheets and handmade booklets are in full view.
“Mommy!” I’ll hear, along with an unmistakable tone of disbelief and despair. “How did this get in here? Why is my work in the trash?”
And, once again, I’ll explain that I’ve admired her work but that we can’t save everything. That’s when my arms start moving wildly about, motioning around our already cluttered home.
All the while, she’s digging the papers out, peeking under other items for good measure, perhaps even discovering treasures for future art projects.
Now, I understand not being able to let go. (Hence all the clutter.) I’ve been known to lament the lack of tangible evidence that I ever attended elementary school. We moved so often (six schools by fifth grade) and left so much behind as we went. I own not a single sketch or poem or poster created in my young years.
I’m constantly seeking solutions for a compromise between my own paucity and entirely too much.
Some experts recommend that parents scan special artwork; you keep the digital file and toss the original. It’s a great idea, but who has time for scanning and file management?
A friend keeps two giant tubs, one for each child. She figures that when her kids are grown, they’ll be willing to take only that one tub with them. So everything she saves in their 18 years at home needs to fit.
In theory, that forces her to be choosy in what she saves, though she admits she has some serious culling to do — and her oldest is only in first grade.
I’m going to try the tub approach, examining each piece with the question: “Would Katie want to move away from home with this?”
Most likely the answer will be no. A quiet no, followed by some imperceptible recycling and a little burying.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.
2 comments:
I use the tub method. I don't know what I'll do when it fills up, as I am determined to only keep one per child. But so far, it works.
We used to keep everything in a tub for a year or semester, then cull it. This would allow you to cull it to another location that wouldn't be noticed, too! Then I have a "permanent" tub that the best stuff goes in. Of course, I did better doing this with my first child. It seems the second child always gets a little less notice. :-)
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