I'm not saving stuff for you.
Maybe by the time you come along we will have progressed to the point where all toys are holographic projections and cleanup consists of hitting the off switch. (Wow. THAT is a fantasy.)
Or maybe we will have regressed to the point where all you have to play with is sticks and dirt. (Oh, wait, that's what your parents are playing with.)
Or maybe things will be pretty much the same, in which case, there will be yard sales.
Or maybe your parents will stay true to their preadolescent forswearing of reproduction. In which case, they won't be your parents.
Whatever it is, we can get along without me saving things.
I didn't actually get rid of the blocks yet. Those inch cubes are pretty handy for teaching volume, so I can justify them through at least third grade.
By the time you come along, the colors that looks so cute now will be ghastly. The toys that are educational will be passe. The river will move on.
I may as well let it sweep some of this stuff away with it. Let somebody else enjoy it before it expires completely.
Of course, nobody will let me get rid of the Duplos yet, even though they have long since officially graduated to Legos.
Or just let it go to the landfill. My time is not worth sorting out the cards from dollar store games of Old Maid, from cardboard puzzles that are warped and missing half their pieces. Some things even the poor don't want. And I need the space.
You want your grandmother to reach her old age with her sanity intact, don't you?
So . . . don't complain. When you come along, maybe we'll go to the park. Or the library, where they have librarians to make sure the pieces go back with the right puzzles. Or switch on the toybox holograph.