Collectors Anonymous

Let me tell you a little somethin' about  my son, Nicky.

He is a collector.

This is a pretty common habit of children - they have to pick up anything and everything they see, bring it home, and treasure it for a lifetime. In Nicky's case, he brings stuff home (or digs it out of the garbage can) and wants to make it into art or home decor. Anything that looks remotely discarded is, in his eyes, free game.

(That's how he ended up with a stolen copy of Guns and Ammo magazine a few weeks ago).

(Gosh, wouldn't it be cool if the merchandise on the floor really was free? Just think of how much crap you could get from Ross!)

(Seriously, Ross. Why do you even bother to have shelves and racks? By 10:00 a.m. your entire inventory is being trampled by shopping carts. You know, those shopping carts that we're not allowed to take out of the store? Pshhht!)

Anyway.

Nicky.

Collector.

The poor boy gets offended if I throw anything away without consulting him. Just today he flipped his lid over an empty package of baby wipes I had tossed in the trash.

"I need this!" he said.

"FOR WHAT?" I asked.

"To put water in!" he declared in his best "duh-MOM!" manner.

(Okay, so not everything he does is "art;" a lot of it is just plain destructive and/or messy).

I have a love/hate relationship with this trait. On one hand, I love that Nicky is creative, but on the other, my house is full of random junk. There are times when I put my foot down and tell him, "No, you can not keep that!" but most of the time, I feel like I am squashing his hopes and dreams by telling him that he can't bring home the shards of broken CD he finds on the side of the road and hopes to make a mosaic from.

Now, all of this is not to ask for advice on the matter or to complain. I just wanted to present a written explanation as to why I have had this stupid goose head in my house for the past year.