My parents kicked me out of home this year.
Clarification: my parents pleaded with me to get rid of the bags and boxes of stuff I had stored at their house in Canberra since I moved out at age 21. Nearly two decades ago.
So much for unconditional love.
When I first left home, book-smart but real-estate dumb, I figured it wouldn’t be long before I landed a fabulous job and bought a house of my own. Preferably one with water views, a heated towel rack and – the sign, I thought, of a true grown-up – a spare room permanently made up as a guest bedroom, not a junk room, drying area or Abdominizer workout zone. (It was the 1990s.)
This magical fantasy dream home would also have abundant storage space, so I could keep as many ticket stubs, theatre programs, birthday cards, photos, books and clothes as my heart desired.
Before long, the property market went bonkers. I rented a series of rooms in share houses and apartments in Canberra, London and Sydney, and became a journalist, not a lawyer (insert financial face palm).
Every now and then, I would add to the stash at my parents’ place. A sleeping bag here. A fancy dress costume there. Before long, the wardrobe in my old bedroom was more full than when I had lived there, so I clambered up into the attic and discovered more room for my ever-expanding collection.
Eventually, they got fed up, demanding I get rid of it all. After all, I was a grown woman, with a home and children of my own. Although it felt like a peculiar variety of rejection, I couldn’t exactly keep hassling them to downsize when I was taking advantage of their oversized family home.
So, on a trip back with my two young children this year, I tackled the job. Box after box was opened, the contents examined … and mostly binned. What use was a textbook on privacy law from an era before Facebook? Did I really need the U2 posters that had once adorned my bedroom door when I disliked pretty much everything after Achtung Baby? And must my teenage obsession with Mal Meninga follow me into middle age?
Recycling bins were filled. Old camping gear was donated to Vinnies. Photos, favourite books and a few trinkets were loaded into the car and driven back up the Hume Highway.
A friend’s father couldn’t bear to get rid of his son’s sporting trophies. As a compromise, he carefully removed the name plaques from each one and attached them to a single piece of timber. I kept an autographed CD of Mal Meninga’s retirement tribute song.
I finally bought a home in Sydney a few years ago. An apartment, not a house. There’s no guest bedroom but it does have a heated towel rack and you can see the water from the sunroom. The mezzanine storage level in the garage is already full of baby clothes, spare heaters, newspaper clippings, sleeping bags that mysteriously keep appearing despite the fact my husband and I both hate camping.
Mum and dad still haven’t downsized but they seem to be enjoying their newfound storage space. And it turns out I’m not the only one in the family with hoarding tendencies. Every time they visit now, they bring one or two of their favourite pieces of clothing that I wore as a girl. To my four-year-old’s eyes, the 1980s ruffles and taffeta are completely on-trend.
I haven’t played her the Mal Meninga CD. Yet.
