The Most Important Thing You Can Do Is Free Your Kids From Your Emotional Baggage
A story about what to carry forward and what to leave behind - and for good reason.
One week after my mother died, my sister and I arrived at her house with a U-Haul and a mandate to wind down the remnants of her life.
It penciled out as an easy job, my mom having moved twice in the previous five years, each time prompting a garage sale or phone call to one of us inquiring, “do you want this?”
Anything of special significance or sentiment should have been long gone, so we adopted a well-known strategy to expedite the process—save, donate, trash.
It was a simple algorithm.
“Save” meant my sister or I wanted it. Failing that, if someone else could use it, it went to “donate.” Anything that didn’t fall into the previous categories went into “trash”—literally.
But even with our ruthless efficiency we ran into speed bumps, the first of which was a hoard of ephemera my mother had obsessively collected.
Old travel brochures and printed recipes mixed with bank statements, handwritten check ledgers, and triplicate copies of utility bills, each annotated by highlighter and Post-it note.
There were file cabinets full of folders, stuffed with everything from 60-page prospectuses for mutual funds she never bought to instruction manuals for exercise equipment she never used, plus receipts for every repair, upgrade, and renovation ever done on her houses, going back to the first one my parents bought in 1972.
Not wanting to accidentally throw out a cherished photo or stock certificate for 10,000 shares of Apple, we sifted through each piece one at a time.
But quantity wasn’t the only obstacle. Emotional drag played its part as well, particularly when we got to her bedroom.
My mom lived alone in a three-bedroom house, but the sicker she got, the smaller the orbit of things around her became.
Hats to cover her naked head. Mints and candies to take the bitter taste of chemo from her mouth. A phone and flashlight for emergencies. Nightshades, an ice pack, and a hot water bottle so she could sleep better.
These items and more piled up on what started as a simple side table but evolved into a massage bed full of things pulled close.
I’ll admit to a tinge of guilt when clearing away the miscellany of my mother’s life, but I had to.
Every time I entered the house it felt like she was still there. Around the corner, in the kitchen making a sandwich, or upstairs folding clothes—always just out of view.
I had to begin creating space between the memory of her alive and the fact that she was dead.
In these situations, you do odd things. Things that don't make sense.
Like when I bumped into her desk clock and the battery fell out. I quickly scrambled to replace it. To make sure it kept accurate time for someone who wasn't there—and never would be again.
But what really slowed us down was deciding what to do with things that carried a tacit obligation, such as the antique pair of glasses, an inkwell, and an old church hymnal which we found in a small chest of drawers nestled in the corner of a closet.
On the front cover of the holy book was inscribed the name 'John Kelly.'
A snippet of retained family folklore told me he was a great-great-grandfather, or uncle, or cousin twice removed – someone from my father’s side who died 150 or more years ago.
I knew nothing else about him, but reflexively put his things in the “save” category.
Then wondered why.
A Russian nesting doll with hand-painted scenes from Prokofiev’s “Peter and the Wolf.”
I was in love.
I thought she might be my wife someday. And I wanted to get her something special.
She was hard to shop for, but I had paid particular attention when she cooed over her friend’s Russian nesting doll.
That’s what I would get your future mother.
I went to every place I could think in search of one—tchotchke shops, doll museums, even the local Russian cultural center—but to no avail. And her birthday was the next day.
Disappointed and depressed, I went to the mall—a mall I’d been to a hundred times before, one which had no Russian nesting dolls—resigned to buy her a shirt, or something.
Walking through the concourse I passed kiosks selling random crap like handmade jewelry, customized cell phone covers, peanut brittle, off-brand plushies, steak knives, new age crystals, windchimes, bath salts, and Russian nesting dolls.
Wait, what?
Yes, right there before me stood Vaclav’s Doll Hut, brimming over with nesting dolls of every size and shape. I picked one I thought she’d like.
She did.
It’s the one you’re looking at now.
And the stroke of serendipity that led me to this doll convinced me that your mother and I were destined for each other.
P.S. One week later I was in the same mall, and I thought I’d stop by and tell Vaclav how happy this doll had made my girlfriend. But his kiosk was gone. Vanished, never to return.
A ragged, bearded doll, dressed in Bavarian clothes made of green felt.
I was only eight and it was the first time I’d flown by myself. I wasn’t scared, but the stewardess who sat next to me gave me ginger ale and a toy airplane just to make sure I was okay.
The flight was short, and Geneva and Roy were waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs when I deplaned.
I called them my aunt and uncle but technically they were “greats”—Geneva my grandmother’s sister and Roy her husband.
I was spending the weekend with them at their house, and knowing how they’d dote on me, I’d been excited about the trip ever since they first called my parents to suggest it.
Childless and now in their early sixties, I was cast in the role of the child they never had, much like they had done with my father before me.
They were wonderful people. Not particularly educated, but cultured. Roy even played violin in the San Francisco Symphony.
And kind. Oh, so kind.
Though my young mind couldn't quite grasp the fullness of their affection, my heart understood it.
The weekend was full of adventures. They took me to Fisherman’s Wharf where I tried shrimp cocktail for the first time. We ate chocolate sundaes in Ghirardelli Square, then rode the ferry to Alcatraz. And on Sunday we had a picnic in Sausalito.
But what made the biggest impression on my eight-year-old brain were the tall tales Roy told while we sat around the dining table eating prime rib and Yorkshire pudding.
Roy had once lived in a faraway land called Germany. It was there that he’d seen incredible things, like people paying for a loaf of bread with a wheelbarrow full of money and men in boots marching in the streets, shouting slogans to their leader—an evil man they called 'The Father'—who eventually attacked his own neighbors.
Roy left Germany but returned after a great war had passed and The Father was gone.
He looked far and wide for his friends, but they were no longer there.
I remember thinking that The Father had probably taken them away.
Before I went home, Geneva and Roy gave me a present – a Sandman – the one you’re looking at now.
In German, he’s called Sandmännchen.
Sandmännchen is the gatekeeper of children’s dreams, and according to legend, carries an umbrella under each arm.
One of the umbrellas has pictures on the inside, which he spreads over the good children so they can dream the most beautiful stories all night long.
The other umbrella has no pictures, and this he holds over naughty children so that they sleep heavily, and wake in the morning without having dreamed at all.
At the back of my Sandmännchen there’s a string, attached to an ivory ring. When pulled, it plays a Bavarian lullaby.
When I had nightmares, I pulled that ring and brought the Sandman close to protect me from the unknown—and thought fondly of Aunt Geneva and Uncle Roy.
A black and white photo of a small grainy image.
I sat in the darkened room and watched the movement on the screen. I’d done this twice before, but still, I was nervous.
“Good,” said the technician. “Just fine.”
She moved swiftly through the process, but the gaps between her words seemed to last a lifetime.
“Good over here,” she continued.
Then she paused, “Hmm?”
Hmm? I thought. What does “hmm” mean? Don’t say hmm. Never say hmm during an ultrasound.
I held my breath for what seemed an eternity. Finally, she spoke…
“Okay, everything looks great.”
My relief was audible as I let out a loud “whew!”
Three months down, six to go.
I was fine with just you two. To be honest, I was fine with none. But after you came into my life, I couldn’t imagine it any other way. And if number three brought even half the joy you did, I’d welcome her with open arms.
Her. It was a girl.
I wondered what she’d look like. Specifically, would she be a mini version of her sister, or have a look all her own?
I pictured her with curly hair.
My mind drifted as I calculated how old I’d be when she graduated high school, got married, had kids.
The humming from the ultrasound machine brought me back to reality, as a series of small photos – with even smaller images on them - emerged from a hidden slot.
One of which you’re holding right now.
We raced home to show them to your grandparents and to post on Facebook. We got cheers of excitement and likes all-around. The next step was a name.
Then the phone rang.
“Mr. Lund?”
It was Doctor Tucker, your mom’s obstetrician.
“We have the results from the amniocentesis and there seems to be an anomaly,” he began. “I’m sorry to inform you that your baby has markers for Trisomy 18.”
It’s a genetic disorder that causes most babies to die in utero, and if they do live to birth, they’re usually dead within a matter of hours.
She died not long after we found out.
I was sad, and as men often do, I pushed my emotions down deep and thought no more of it.
But your mom was devastated and never got over it.
It was my job to inform family and friends, as well as delete the social media posts.
Your mother never mentioned the ultrasound photos, but I assumed she’d want me to get rid of them, so I ripped them up.
I never told her I kept this one.
I don’t know why I did.
The prime directive for every parent is to leave their children with as little burden as possible.
Financial burden. Emotional burden. Physical burden. The burden of things.
What you just read were the letters I’d write to my children—in an alternative universe—explaining the significance of these things I left behind.
But the narratives are uniquely mine, and expecting my emotional attachments to translate to anybody else is the height of arrogance.
To me, these things represent the touchstones of my life, but to my children, they are a cheap trinket, a raggedy old doll, and a low-quality image of, at best, an abstract concept.
I understand the importance of history, of family history, and a sense of lineage. But I also understand the value in relieving your offspring from the burden of carrying sentimental straw men from generation to generation.
And if I accomplish nothing else as a parent, I at least want to free them from my baggage.
So, this is the letter I will write instead.
As you wind down the remnants of my life, feel no obligation to take my things with you.
I’ve lived a full life and the things I’ve left behind are hollow vessels compared to the memories you carry of me in your heart.
If they please you through aesthetics or emotion, gladly take them with you. If they’ll help someone else, forward them so, but, and this is so important, don’t be afraid to discard them with abandon.
More than anything else, that will put my soul at ease.
By the time my mother died, my father had been gone for over 30 years, and when he was here, I never once heard him mention the impressively unremarkable name 'John Kelly.'
The widow Kelly kept her husband’s things because they were the only tangible remnants of the man she loved, and, well, who knows why my mom kept them.
But bestowing the unloved detritus of a long-dead relative—of whom there were never memories nor affections to forget—on your children is an exercise in obligation.
Sure, they’ll accept them, but not with reverence or sentiment, but resentment, like a genetic disease passed down through the generations.
If I kept these things, I foresaw my great-grandchildren, 150 years from now, wrestling with this same defective tontine.
And so, I gladly relegated them to “trash.”
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Read more stories from The Anecdote.
Brian, this week’s Anecdote hit me hard. My wife and I lost our 3rd child in the first trimester more than 30 years ago. I’ve never gotten over it, although I try to bury those memories. I relate to every word you’ve written about that incident in your life. Another brilliantly written Anecdote.
You have a talent, Brian.