I’ve had a short fuse lately.  Maybe it’s hormonal, but I can’t seem to tolerate even the basic level of mess in our house.  Sticky mess on the kitchen floor, tiny-toy mess in the playroom, marker mess on my kids’ faces, potty mess in the bathroom… I may be halfway out of The Baby Cave, but the truth is, I’m still cleaning up a lot of poo every day. 

This longing for external order is a symptom of internal dissatisfaction, of course.  A clean, well-organized living space symbolizes a serene mental-state, uncluttered by worry and agitation.  The more frantic I get inside, the more I want to vacuum, wipe counters, and throw away plastic farm animals.  Even though it’s still summer, I feel compelled to do a seasonal purging of our belongings, a Master Cleanse for the house-  flushing out material excess the way the body flushes out toxins.

How did all this stuff get here, anyways?  When I was pregnant with my first, a friend warned me about the marketing forces that pushed diaper-genies, wipe-warmers, singing mobiles, and fancy educational toys.  “You’re having your baby in the summer,” my wise friend said.  “All you really need are some diapers and a pair of boobs.” 

In theory I agreed with her essentialist philosophy, but in practice I wanted the gifts I was lucky to receive from family and friends.  The gliding rocker, the vibrating bouncy chair, the plush stuffed animals…  All these trappings helped me create space for my newborn, lulling me into thinking I was prepared for the enormous life change ahead.

Fast-forward four years and those same stuffed bunnies and lambs are worn and discolored, used daily for Tea- and Birthday Parties.   My oldest daughter hoards them in her room, along with her favorite dolls, pieces of play food, and the scads of unremarkable knick-knacks that are her most precious possessions.  She slams the door to keep her little sister away from her sacred piles of stuff.  Still, the cunning toddler manages to sneak in and swipe a miniature kitten off the animal table, run off, and hide it in the closet. 

When my children fight like vultures over their belongings, I threaten to grab a garbage bag and throw everything away   Often, this strategy works.  They know I periodically lug bags of toys and clothes to thrift shops, give stuff away or put it out on the curb.  I sometimes feel desperate to be free from the tyranny of Things in our lives, to teach my children the values of gratitude and non-materialism.  Yet I myself am a lifelong victim of the illusion that happiness comes from stuff.  

I remember spending my childhood Christmases sick with anticipation, the presents piled shining under the tree like a small city waiting to be razed.  After the frenzy, I sat with my new gifts amidst the wreckage of wrapping paper, an empty pit in my belly.  Was this really all?  Why didn’t I get a Barbie? 

Today, even though I know better, I find myself lured into the slick pages of a Pottery Barn Kids catalog.  If only I had an elaborate $2000 wall-system of stacking shelves and monogrammed bins….  If only a professional Feng Shui consultant would arrive with special organizing tools and put order to our overflowing closets and drawers…

American culture bombards us with the message of More.  We need to do more, be more, have more.  And with more stuff, we need more space.  Even books and magazines for “simple living” glorify a certain perfectionist aesthetic.  The Creative Family, by mother-of-four Amanda Soule, is filled with enchanting photos of the author’s airy, craftsman-built house in Maine, decorated with hand-made projects, uncluttered by real-life kid-mess.  Soule is selling an idealized homemade lifestyle (alongside instructions on how to sew a roll-up pencil case).  The radical affirmation that we are good enough as we are-as parents, as people-is nowhere to be found.

I remember the new-age saying: “Happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want.”  As I grow older, such proverbs keep proving themselves true.  Manhattan native Judith Levine puts the thesis to test in her thought-provoking book, Not Buying It:  My Year Without Shopping, a drastic experiment in anti-consumerism.  For 365 days, Levine limits her consumption to only “necessary” goods and services, struggling in the process to define the difference between need and want.

While I’m not about to go to such extremes, I want to guide my children mindfully through the material world.  To walk this path, I’ll have to let go of my own fantasies of perfection, inner and outer, and accept the cyclical mess.  Attachment to order is another kind of tyranny.   The kitchen gets clean, it gets dirty again… The toys come out, they go back in again.  And so life goes on.

Tags:   attachment · materialism · Self-improvement · stuffNo Comments