We're not hoarders

I go through phases in life where I repeat this particular phrase.  "I'm not a hoarder."  Sometimes I say it because it's true, sometimes I say it for self-preservation, sometimes it's for preventative reasons.   I've been known to say  it while packing.  While cleaning.  While shopping.  While sorting through clothes.  While glancing in the garage.

And when I uncovered this precious gem, I said it again.

And then I threw it away.  Immediately.  Right on top of the dog poo in the rubbish bin.

Now while it was a memento from that marvelous day The Redhead was born, almost a decade ago, and Mister Man had once wanted to keep the very robe he wore while in the operating room, it was time to just...let it go.  

He agreed.  Neither one us could figure out what exactly made us think it was worth keeping.

So...why did we keep it all those years in the hall closet in the other house?  Your guess is as good as mine.  Sentimentality is a space killer.

I just wish we had thought about this back in Kansas.  Years ago.