My Son, the Hoarder

This is hard for me to say, but I need to get it off my chest: I live with a hoarder.

He’s an adorable four-year-old child, but don’t let his sparkling blue eyes fool you. He’s a bona fide hoarder.

I never thought I would dread Fridays, when he proudly displays his projects from the week at school. But my heartbeat quickens when the clock strikes one-thirty on Friday afternoon and I know that soon, The Hoarder will be home with his latest treasures. He’s so happy, displaying each painting and glue-gunned contraption, and I ooh and ahh obediently. But inside my head, I am planning, plotting, and scheming. How many weeks will it be before I can make this one disappear?

Lest you think, dear reader, that I am a wicked mommy who doesn’t allow her child’s creativity to shine, allow me to take you on a tour of my home, which I fondly call The Hoarder’s Hovel.