We cleaned out the big toy-chest today.
The kids have slowly taken over the far corner of the livingroom with stuffed animals and blocks and legos (note to SG: Not just you!) and the sun porch looks like a toy tornado hit it. Today we worked on the living room.
Note to relatives: no more toy cars EVER.
So in the midst of matching puzzle pieces and assigning boxes and bins (and in the case of the dinky cars, a backpack*) to different things, I found a wooden train and car that had been my brothers', and seeing it in my daughter's hand made me realize how many things I have scattered through my life from home.
Big things - the kitchen table (it's the only one I remember my parents having) a hutch, a picture. My grandmother's bookcase is in the living room. My great-aunt Bertie's music box and all the photo albums my mother made. Little things - wooden spoons. My rings sit in a covered bowl that looks like a fish that I've had since high school. My baby cup. Books.
And yet... as I looked around I realized how much of Bear was here too. For the most part our stuff co-habits well (in large part because my house is (sigh) functional and not decorative in the least, so the mish-mash of common items works**) but in some areas - not so good.
At what point do things stop being my stuff and his stuff to my casual eye?
And I've lived here six years - when do the things I brought with me just become 'things I brought with me' and not 'things from home'?
*And it's FULL. Rosey almost went ass over teakettle trying to hoist it up on her shoulder.
**The best thing about our house? The side-yard. Definitely.