My husband and I finally decided it was time to chuck the old, crusty sippy cups our son has been using for the past year or so. No matter how much we wash them we can never seem to get them completely clean. It always had pieces of dried up juice or gunk in hard to reach places.
But just as I went to throw them away, something happened. I couldn’t quite bring myself to let them drop into the trash can. What’s wrong with me? They’re just cheap, plastic cups. Maybe it’s my inner environmentalist voice reminding me to reduse, reuse, recycle. Somehow, I doubt that’s it.
And I didn’t have this much of a problem with his baby bottles. I was happy to pack those up in the event that we have another little bundle of joy. Maybe it was all the time spent washing, drying, boiling (repeat) that I had to endure with the bottles.
I told my husband that I chickened out and couldn’t do it, and he agreed that it was sad thinking about letting them go. I think we associate objects with people and the fond memories we have of them. Throwing away these two silly cups would be like tossing out all the times I woke my son up from a nap and saw his happy feet dance as I filled them up with apple juice. Or settling down for the night with a nice sippy cup full of milk.
I can see now why people end up being hoarders. But what am I going to do with two worn-out sippy cups? Frame them? Dip them in bronze and place them on the mantle? It’s really silly to keep them.
But yet, I still can’t throw them away.
