I have always had a peculiar attachment to my possessions. In the early days of my relationship with my partner, we ventured through a fast-food drive-thru one evening. Our vehicle was in utter chaos, a result of my recent couch-hopping for a friend’s wedding. When the attendant handed my partner his change, he scattered it carelessly across the console. It was akin to tossing dice onto a surface, but in the dimly lit car, it vanished into the depths. I was horrified and lost my composure.
My partner shot back defensively, “Your car is a total mess; why do you care where I put the change?” I can’t quite recall my response, but I must have attempted to communicate rationally, all while affirming his feelings. What emerged from that heated exchange was a realization: when my belongings are not treated with care—regardless of their condition—I feel a sense of disrespect.
As I transitioned into my thirties, I believed I had matured in this aspect of life. I no longer hovered over my friends, worried about how they used my flat iron. “Be gentle; the ceramic can crack!” was my relentless caution during my college days. It’s surprising that I maintained any friendships at all. Perhaps what I considered maturity was merely a shift in circumstances. In adulthood, I do not share my items nearly as frequently as I did in my early twenties—until, of course, I became a parent.
And now, I find myself facing a new challenge.
My children seem to have an inexplicable fascination with my belongings, and I’m at my wit’s end. Just today, while I was upstairs folding laundry for a mere six minutes, one of my darling children decided that my designer sunglasses only required one arm. Seriously, what gives?! When I confront them, their attention remains glued to the television, watching their favorite show. I explain how treasured these glasses are, how much they cost, but my words fall on deaf ears.
My mother often offers this sage advice: “Store your valuable items out of reach.” While I’ll certainly try to be more proactive about hiding things that could easily be destroyed, I must ask—how does one predict that the handles from my dining room buffet would go missing? Why on earth would they remove furniture knobs and then forget about it entirely? Where could they possibly be?
Every time I glance at the buffet, I feel a pang of sadness. Despite having childproof locks and keeping items stored away, my efforts seem futile. In the past month alone, my children have managed to ruin:
- My bronzer
- An entire bag of Neutrogena makeup remover wipes (yes, two bags)
- Three packs of gum
- Every bottle of water I was drinking when they decided to share a sip
- My nasal spray
- My hairspray
- A single slipper
- A personalized wine glass
- A necklace I was wearing
- Two book covers
It’s challenging for me to accept that the future of my possessions is in constant jeopardy. I think I need a toddler insurance policy. Is it too much to ask my 2 and 4-year-olds to simply stop meddling with my things?
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In summary, navigating parenthood while safeguarding my belongings feels like an impossible task. The struggle between my children’s curiosity and my desire to maintain my possessions creates a constant balancing act.
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