Part of my decluttering (read: procrastinating along with de-funkifying) yesterday was to move a shelf in my office. It's kind of hidden by my chaise longue/unfortunate cat scratching post, so I'd put a bunch of picture books there.
These are books that fall in a few categories:
- Books I took home from discard book boxes when I worked at Scholastic Book Clubs over TWENTY YEARS AGO. Holy hell, that makes me feel old.
- Books I bought because I liked them, but also because I thought I'd share them with my own child at some point. Some Bryce bought, too.
- Books from our baby shower 6 years ago that have dedication stickers in them that say who they are from and a message to our FutureBaby, who turned out to be in an alternate reality that never came to pass.
- Books that were mine that I loved, and that I wanted to keep for my future children. You know, the ones that don't exist.
Perhaps this wasn't a task to take on while fighting a funk. But, I did. I don't know what to do with them, but I do have a shelf in the hallway upstairs that has some old picture books of mine, and they are going up there. Except the Maine ones, those go on the Maine shelf in the living room. They don't need to be in my inspirational space.
It made me think... WHY am I keeping so many? I have actually given a bunch away to friends with actual children, and most of the ones left I still have for reasons. I love picture books. They represent more than just the kids we never had. But, they don't have to live so close to where I spend so much time.
I decided to donate a bag of them to the organization that helps with tutoring and chubby services for a large low income housing development in my district, where there are also a lot of families involved in refugee resettlement. Who doesn't need books of their own? I'd rather more go there and get used than be sad in a shelf I keep slowly moving and winnowing.
It's still hard, though.
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