Dumpster

One day, when my son John came home from preschool, he had a new friend in his backpack. His name was Pilly, and he was a small blue-and-yellow pillow.

His mother and I were not sure that Pilly was actually intended to be a child's plaything. It's possible that Pilly was a dog toy. Pilly must've belonged to another child, but we asked around and no one ever claimed him.

It's a good thing, too, because John and Pilly were inseparable. When I put him to bed at night, he always had Pilly with him, snuggled against his cheek. He grew older and bought many, many new stuffies, and he always rubbed them against his cheek to see how they'd feel when hugging. He got a number of rabbits, a Creeper and a Skeleton from Minecraft, stuffed Peeps bunnies, Squishmallows, those little guys you turn inside out, sharks from aquariums, pachyderms from zoos and Disney World, Pokémon of every size and shape and generation.

He's 16 now, and still loves his stuffed animals and, as I've said to anyone who'll listen, I love that he loves stuffed animals. He's a beautiful human being, a compassionate and funny and thoughtful young man, and a much better son than I deserve.

This has been an interesting week. As part of our intended move to France in 2028, I rented a dumpster to get rid of as much stuff as we possibly could. This can be emotionally difficult. My mother grew up in poverty. Her home burned down when she was in high school and she lost everything. My father died just after I turned 11 and left her a single mother of two. She values possessions, even small things, in a way that can make other people uncomfortable.

I haven't had that issue, but a slightly different one. I think I tried to build and maintain an emotional distance between my son and me, so that he would not be devastated when I died. I kept my self emotionally locked down, at various levels, because I was deeply afraid of that eventuality.

Did I act rationally to maintain or improve my health, to provide for my family in the event of my death, etc? Well, no, I acted with fear and selfishness. I distanced myself, I minimized the surface of contact, I outsourced companionship and entertainment and emotional engagement. I was about as remote as I could be, for a guy who was always physically in the house.

And I had a lot of hobbies, all of which cost a substantial amount of money and few of which brought me genuine longterm fulfillment. One in particular, homelabbing, enabled me to become a decent engineer.

So the past few days have involved me going through the house and preparing to sell or donate or discard a massive amount of personal possessions, primarily tied to hobbies I've had. And of course, as I did this, as I encountered some widget or book or musical instrument or miniature or plant or aquarium fixture or whatever, I had to think: that's $5, or $15, or $50, that could've stayed in my pocket. And though I've never made a FAANG salary, I've made good enough money for the past few years that we should be better off than we are.

In addition to the guilt, there's a significant amount of physical pain in my joints, from rheumatoid arthritis. I think my joints may have been deteriorating more quickly lately, as I approach my 46th birthday - the one my father didn't reach. So I pick up a few things, I throw them out, and I have to rest. Thursday night was awful; I tossed and turned, my knees on fire. Friday night was worse.

Yesterday, I came up from downstairs. My wife informed me that she and John had gone through his room and bagged up most - not all - of his stuffed animals. She showed me a picture of him, 16, with Pilly, because he'd agreed to give Pilly away.

I broke down immediately. It's the only time I've cried in front of my wife, in now over twenty years of marriage. It's the only time I've cried in front of another person as an adult. It was completely unexpected, and it felt amazing.

They filled up nine 30-gallon trash bags with stuffies, and that didn't count the eight big guys that were too large to economically fit in trash bags. I have Pilly on the table next to me. The rest went to a local organization that works with single mothers.