The noise in my head is full of tchotchkes.

The noise in my head is full of tchotchkes.

Anyone that knows me and has been to my house knows I love mementos or as my Brother in Law, Burt, refers to them, tchotchkes.I admit that I do but I also want it noted that I love to have things that remind me of a certain person, place or adventure. I love to look at something and instantly remember why that object is important to me. I can remember the who, what and where of every object in my house. I love having all of these good memories surrounding me and reminding me everyday of how blessed I am.

Name any memento and I will tell you all about it.

Name any memento and I will tell you all about it.

Some, ok many, have called me a hoarder. Recently Tripe P and I cleaned all the cabinets in the kitchen. She had to constantly remind me that I put too much importance on “things” and that I had whatever memories in my heart and in my journals and it was time to cleanse. It was not easy. I am still regretting throwing away their sippy cups. They were so cute! The Thinker used to bite his lids (better than biting his sister) and I loved looking at his little teeth marks. Weird?, maybe but at least I own it! And do not get me started on my Mother in Law. Her house is spotless. She has some pictures but that is it! Everything in her house has a purpose and there are no mementos of anything anywhere! Once, years ago, she tried to help me purge and made me throw away my wedding cards!!!! Who does that? I am still bitter and wish I had them. I recently said that I would love to still have the written messages on those cards from people I have loved that have since passed away. Triple P, the Mental Health Counselor, replied you have the love and memory of those people in your heart, isn’t that enough? NO! I want to see their handwriting on the card. Weird? maybe, but at least I own it.

Which brings me to why I am writing this. I even have mementos in my bathroom. Go ahead judge me. Once you have been judged by your Mother in Law you are immune to anyone else’s snarky judgement. (I am loving the word snarky lately). One of those treasures is a soap dish my Dad brought back from Russia. It sits right next to the sink. The only time there is soap in it is when Sienna sends me a pretty one. Usually it just sits there reminding me of Dad. I will glance at it as I am brushing my teeth and think of the time he was in Russia. It was quite a few years ago and while he was there we did not get to speak to him very often. When he came back from one of his trips he sent each of us a detailed itinerary he kept every day of his trip so we would know what it was like. I, of curse, read every world. Some days were terribly exciting like when some gangster type guys boarded their plane and “politely’ asked for a tip before the plane was allowed to take off. They gave them a tip. Some days were boring full of business meetings and shots of vodka. Some days were so my Dad, days spent in his hotel room eating peanut butter and cookies that Dee made him that he had brought from home. Whatever memories they brought back the dish reminded me off my Dad and I was grateful that even though he stole things from his Russian hotel he was not in a Russian prison.

Broken, just like my heart.
Broken, just like my heart.

Well, deep sigh, two nights ago the thinker was in the bathroom taking a shower. When he got out I heard a crash. My first thought was “Please do not let that be my soap dish”. I calmly asked “Och, what was that?”. His words came crashing through the bathroom door, “That soap thing”. I instantly started crying. He opened the door and gave me a look, you know the look. I said “That was the soap dish Papa brought back from Russia”. Well, I think I sobbed it but whatever. As he walked into his room he said “everything in this house has a memory” and shut the door. I swear he said it like it was a BAD thing? I clutched the pieces of the soap dish to my chest, threw myself on my bed and sobbed. (Again, I am not overly dramatic or anything like that.) I have been crying ever since.

So, I am wondering is it bad that everything in my house has a memory attached to it because I don’t think so.

P.S. If you are wondering if Dad brought Triple P some of those Russian Nesting Dolls they are so famous for the answer is yes. They are safely packed up in the basement with her American Girl Dolls. One day when she has children of her own (fingers crossed because we all know I will be a kick ass Grandma) she will be thrilled that her hoarder mother saved the Russian Nesting Dolls her grandfather brought back from Russia and her children will play with them. Memories.

6 Responses »

  1. My house is exactly like yours…full of my “stuff” and every single piece has a memory and a story. And to complete the “circle of life” Dave brought me nesting dolls from Russia when he returned from Sochi on Monday! We appear to be cut from the same cloth, Baby Janet!

  2. janetta, everything in my house has a story and a memory attached too…it is who i am and how i stay connected to the memories of experiences that shape and molded me… I think my sienna is just as bad ..you should see the things she insisted on saving in bins in the attic before heading off to school… can’t wait to see you tomorrow…

    • Thanks Doo. One of my favorite Mementos is the mirror you made me from Monty’s dishes. I love it more than you will ever know. I am excited and nervous for tonight! What are we going to do next weekend?

  3. I think it’s great that everything has a memory… But those truly important one of a kind pieces might be better off packed away or on a shelf. 😉 And listen to Triple P as she is wise as well as smart.

    • Some are safely packed away but I love having everything out where I can see and use them. I will get over it, just really missing Dad. xo

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