There’s a story behind each trinket tucked inside a dusty box beneath the workbench in our garage.
These humble treasures are wrapped in newspapers from May 2002, cushioned by stories about the Enron probe and President George W. Bush pursuing peace in the Middle East.
It was the summer after I graduated from college. And as I packed the last of my belongings from my parents’ house in Big Bear, I felt ready to start a family of my own.
Looking back, 21 seems so young to be engaged. But there was a saying at my Christian college: “Ring by spring or your money back.” There was no refund in store for my college sweetheart and me, as we planned our wedding for that August.
I’d always wanted kids, and I was certain then that motherhood wouldn’t be far off. So as I moved out of my parents’ house for the last time, I used dark blue puffy paint to label one box “For Our Child.”
I’m not a pack rat. I’ve always loved having yard sales. There’s something so satisfying about purging your belongings and seeing them get new life with someone else. But there were some items from my childhood I just couldn’t part with.
I thought, how fun would it be to watch my daughter play with the same beach-ready Barbie doll that had kept me occupied as a kid? We could plan craft projects of our own as I hung the tiny wooden shelf I’d once painted bubble-gum pink. We could talk about faith while we listened to my Noah’s ark snow globe play “Amazing Grace.” And as my daughter entered those treacherous middle school years, we could read the journals I’d filled at her age so she would know I understood what she was going through.
The box has stayed closed as it moved along with me six times over the past 14 years.
It came with me when my college sweetheart and I parted ways, landing in an apartment closet as I taught high school English and lived alone for the first time. I stuffed it in a rented storage space when I moved across the country to attend graduate school and launch my career in journalism. And eight years ago, the box made its way to the garage of the home I now share with a kind and handsome DJ who I’m certain will be by my side until death do us part.
The partner and the timing are finally right to crack open that dusty box. Only now, my husband and I aren’t so certain we want to have a child.
There are practical reasons. We both have jobs we find fulfilling, but they keep us busy at strange hours and don’t offer much stability. We’re not getting any younger, or any better at saving money. We love having freedom to travel and buck expectations, but we also enjoy our downtime and our sleep.
More importantly, we’re content. We’re that couple who never fights. Who probably make our Facebook friends a bit nauseous with photos of our adventures together. And when I envision our lives 10 years from now, I’m more likely to picture us on an African safari than cheering on our son’s Little League team.
Still, there’s this box.
Nothing inside is valuable. Trust me, I’ve Googled it. But I know I could pass a few trinkets along to friends who have little ones. I could stick a few items out at one of those yard sales I love and make some money toward our next adventure. I could “upcycle” a couple of things, donate some to charity and keep storing a few others – though in a different box.
The trouble is, keeping these items was never about giving a child my bunny ballerina, plastic carousel horse or porcelain flower clock. It was about sharing my passion for writing and art, for music and animals. It was about passing on the faith and values my parents had instilled in me. So even as I started to feel more settled about not having children, a lingering question left me uneasy: What will I leave behind when I’m gone?
The answer clicked when I was sitting at a bridal shower with my husband’s 14-year-old niece a couple of months ago. Over pasta and strawberry salad, she started asking me questions about traveling to faraway places. She’d been listening to stories and seeing photos of my adventures for more than a decade, and she’d been inspired.
Once I started looking, I began to see examples of the legacy I’m building all around me, in students I’ve taught, stories I’ve written and friends I’ve aimed to touch. And that’s made me more motivated than ever to chase the passions and live out the values I once hoped to share with a child.
I’m still not quite ready to part with the box. That would just feel so final, and I don’t want to have any regrets.
But I’ve found peace in knowing that, while our possessions and last name may fade away, our legacies will carry on. And that’s what the box was always about anyway.
Contact the writer: bstaggs@ocregister.com
