I come from a family of notorious pack rats who are quite content to store huge cashes of junk at my mom's house without ever using or thinking of using this junk again. My mom asked me to come up a little early for Easter to sort through a few bags of stuffed animals that she had come across. Knowing that my current apartment is tiny, she didn't ask me to take any of it home, just to let her know if any of it could be tossed. This was still, somehow, daunting. I sat there on the floor of my old bedroom-turned-library, among piles of dirty, worn, and matted hair and fluff. My gut reaction? Keep all of it.




As I sat there though, I realized that even if I had kids to pass these on to, I would never in a million years hand a child my dirty Holly Hobbie with her chewed-off foot. Strawberry Shortcake, once rosy-cheeked and sweet-smelling, was now lying in the pile disheveled, naked and confused. Why would I want to keep any of this when I have pictures, cute pictures, of my five year old self receiving these dolls as gifts when they, and I, were in much better shape? I took a series of cathartic pictures, and laughed at my own silliness; then I bagged them for the dump.

I did keep Rainbow Bright who was in good condition, and Baby- a sad looking doll that I received from my great grandmother, Nana Sigrid, on my first Christmas.