Whatcha Got In There?
Both my kids have this weird habit: they stockpile stuff.
I’m hoping beyond hope that their proclivity for creating squirrel-like caches around the house is simply a normal thing young children do. That Milo and Belle are just flexing their ownership muscle.
But I fear all this stashing is nothing short of odd. An OCD trait that will stick with them for life.
If I bring something new home, say a box of Fruit Leathers or a pad of stickers, they circle it like seagulls ogling a stray cheese puff.
Giving me a sidelong glance, Milo asks, “Can I have that?”
I say, “Maybe later. For now we’re going to keep the Fruit Leathers in a jar and the stickers can go in your art basket.”
“No. I mean for my stash,” he clarifies.
Milo’s stash is a paper grocery bag that resides behind our sofa. All things remotely special to him go there, to sit, mostly forgotten, among stray papers, party favors, fuse bead creations and whatever else strikes his fancy as too precious to mingle with the detritus that is the rest of the household.
“Not everything needs to go in your stash, you know,” I say. “We have other perfectly acceptable storage devices. Like drawers. And closets. And plastic tubs. And a whole bedroom that belongs to you alone.”
But Milo won’t be swayed. I think, to him, his stash represents what is his in the world. The world being the common areas of our house. His stash bulges with the things he would wrap up in a scarf and poke onto a stick if he were to run away.
Though I can’t imagine an empty keychain or toilet paper roll binoculars buying him many hotel rooms or bus rides.
Belle, I have to think, learned her hoarding habit from Milo. She’s taken to it, but not with her brother’s gusto. She’s cool with my relocating her stash, removing and replacing stuff. She just doesn’t seem all that attached to the idea of a trove.
Milo, however, would lay down his life for his plastic trinkets. Or would, at least, skip a dessert to keep it intact.
And if that makes him an odd little gull, so be it, I suppose. It’s a good way for me to get out of feeding and entertaining him. I’ll just wave him behind the sofa where he has surely stored a few Happy Meals and, perhaps, an air hockey table.
