Foisting

“Does it spark joy?” the now unbelievably famous book about organizing asked me. So I touched my socks, my pants, my skirts and asked myself the same. Some things were easy to discard, others not so. I wondered if I could give them to someone I love. Someone who could use them and love them more than I can.

There was an entire chapter in the book proclaiming, “No Foisting!”.

The author didn’t call it, foisting, per se. She used some translation on the Japanese “foist” that made it sound much more sinister, something like thrust, or impose, or offload. It meant the same thing — don’t take the things you don’t want anymore and assume someone you love will want them. Then, don’t guilt, shame or cajole the person into taking them because it makes you feel better about dumping something you once loved, or paid too much for, or thought made your butt look good only to find, it didn’t.

I cleaned out all of my clothes, including 3 designer handbags. Now that my 10 year old is into DIY instead of Disney, backpacks are my thing. She and I can sit in a coffee shop for hours, me batting away on my keyboard and she designing; a new dress, her next birthday party, her bedroom when we remodel for Middle School.

I read the “No Foisting” chapter twice and called my sister. She came over and tried on 10 dresses, listening to me announce where I got them, what I experienced in them, and how much I’d once loved them, then she took the bags of my wayward clothing and said, “I’ll try the rest at home.”

“Don’t you want to know how I chose the organza?”

“Um, no.”

“If you don’t want something, don’t throw it away. Give it back to me.”

She took the bags and mercifully told me she’d be keeping it all. If she lied, I love her more. She knew as well as I did that none of those things were going anywhere but back in my closet if she let me see them again. She might have been taking care of me or, more likely, she didn’t want to hear me say, “You didn’t want this one?! It looks gorgeous on you. I met Chris Rock in this dress in 2001. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

A week after my sister relieved me of my burden, I got a notice from my daughter’s school, “Clothing Drive! This Tuesday!” So we began the emotional task of removing her 10 year-old encumberments. We talked about the value of loving our things enough to give them away when they are no longer useful to us. Redecorating her room will require a lot of change and discarding of old things. I’ve been trying to prepare her for that. But it is me who needs to ready myself. I must let go of the dresses that I loved on her, the Barbie Dream House that I watched my husband and older daughter assemble for 4 hours one Xmas eve, laughing through their frustration to the point of tears, the huge collection of Beanie Boos that once held the value of gold, now stuffed into a basket, collecting dust. She no longer builds Legos for hours, or hosts teddy-bear-teas, and she is asking a lot of questions about girl-on-girl hate.

When I had my daughter at 42, I thought I’d be in the baby gig forever, so grueling was the task after a 10 year hiatus. But the joke of time, once again, is on me. She announced the other day that she would be going to sleep-away camp and handed me a post-it with the website on it.

“It’s my first time at camp so we get a discount.”

My big girl, never wanted to go to camp. Heck, she doesn’t want to go to college. She’d love to stay in her room and come out for food and laundry. She loves being at home, being my baby, being part of our clan. But her sister is different.

My little girl is an independent spirit, willing to try things only to see what is on the other side of them. When she was 2, she got stung by a bee in the pool. I rushed her into the house to put meat tenderizer on the welt. While I frantically mixed the paste, she pointed at the window and cried, “Hurry mommy, pool!” No excruciating sting was going to keep her from the joy of swimming!

Still, I’m not a camp person. I always thought my oldest was sensible not to go. I have no idea what goes on there and I’m against the notion that what happens at camp stays at camp. I’m her mother for goodness sake.

But she and I both know, I’ll do as she asks. I’ll call the number and go to the meetings. I’ll iron labels into her clothes and kiss her at the bus.

We pack up a large amount of clothing, I keep my tears to myself. The toys are harder. She is in a middling place, sometimes kid, sometimes baby. She still needs to work out her issues with her dolls. There is no rush as far as I’m concerned. The teen years will come and go before I can acknowledge them, this I learned the first time around. So she can keep her things a bit longer, just in case.

“Do you want to give those to your baby cousin?” I ask of the Barbies, once again defying the foisting rule.

“Good idea!” She says, then, “But not yet. She’ll still want them in a year or two.”

Decision made, I wrap her in my arms. I hold on until she wriggles away with a barely noticeable eye roll.

“I just love you, so,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says. “Me too. I love you so much too.”

I risk her scorn and grab her again. She melts into my hold. For the moment, it seems, we spark for each other, a tremendous amount of joy.