Julie Jay: Move over Marie Kondo - there’s a new declutterer in town

For weeks now, I have been siphoning off Ted’s toys in a bid to clear some space in our sitting room. 

What with JJ’s pram and accoutrements, Ted’s many toys and my husband’s penchant for big bulky GSOC-style jackets (apparently navy is the new black) it’s all getting a bit Hoarders Anonymous in our small Dingle home.

Ever a walking oxymoron, Ted dislikes mess but isn’t afraid to contribute to it — oh, the endless hypocrisy of a toddler. 

My husband’s suggestion that we give all the toys away to a worthy cause seemed to point to him momentarily forgetting we have another small person coming down the tracks, and getting these toys out of sight but not out of possession was key.

Using methods as discreet as possible, I have been sneaking toys to the attic but usually get stung by Ted’s Gestapo surveillance skills just as I am about to tiptoe upstairs with the contraband. 

The ensuing protests have left me returning teddies and tractors to what is basically now a skip that takes up half our living room.

I get Ted’s reluctance to part with his toys, given that I have been known to have the same Vincent de Paul bag sitting on my landing for months, with full intentions to bring it to a shop but never following through. 

It is a tale as old as time: girl decides to give dress to charity shop, girl places dress in a black bin bag, girl then passes black bin bag and retrieves said dress, deciding it is actually worth saving, and justifying this by telling herself it’s the thought that counts. 

Besides, by re-wearing the dress I am still helping a poor person, but the poor person is, in fact, me.

Equally, Ted finds it hard to part with his disused toys despite them gathering dust in the corner of the sitting room, it’s a reminder of a simpler time. 

A time when all Ted cared about was trains — August of this year to be specific. I understand his emotional attachment to the toys because I feel it myself. 

A physical object is not just stuff and clutter but a talisman, transporting us all back to a place and a moment in time — but perhaps that is to invest the broken basketball hoop with too much importance.

Yesterday, attempting to get him into the car seat, Ted would only cooperate if I allowed him to bring his current favourite toy to school — a broken windmill procured by his gran-aunt at a stall in the Dingle Races. 

I had placed it in the bin after Ted denounced it as ‘briste’ only to have it rescued by my resident scavenger. Getting Ted to part with toys is like trying to get your mother to part with her ‘good’ scissors — nigh impossible.

An orange dinosaur is the latest in a long lineage of dinosaurs who have somehow migrated into our home. 

Like Pablo Escobar’s abandoned hippos, they are taking over the ecosystem, one dinosaur roar at a time. 

The dinosaur itself is reasonably unproblematic but the teeny tiny men it is supposed to be ingesting are the bane of my life, and number one on my ‘get rid list’ should I ever manage to cull the herd.

“Where’s teeny tiny man?” Ted will ask at various stages of the day and I will have to abandon what I am doing and hunt for this minute Putin-esque figure, for fear of incurring his wrath. 

These plastic figures are the Polly Pockets for the next generation — that is to say, an absolute pain in the bottom for parents who are on search and rescue duties approximately 17 times a day.

The worst part of losing small men is having to peer under the couch for them, which can make for a depressing vista of strewn Lego and teaspoons.

But on the plus side, I sometimes happen upon a Malteser, and who doesn’t love a surprise snack?

A great way to get rid of the toy that irks you most is to gift it to a friend, preferably a friend whose home is a little too tidy and peaceful.

We’ve all had the buddy who tries to fob her charity bag of clothes on you by saying “I thought this dress would look perfect on you” despite you being a professional clown with absolutely zero use for a corporate ensemble. 

Similarly, I have been gifted drums, tambourines, and other toys positively vexatious to the soul by my friends, who obviously secretly hate me.

Our toy mountain is ultimately totally unnecessary because a toddler will play with anything lying around. That’s the beautiful thing about kids — with them, there is fun to be found in everything, if you look hard enough.

As I type this, I have just been interrupted by Ted who is wearing a cardboard box as a hat, and playing with a wine bottle opener and I couldn’t be prouder.

Because Lego is great, but opening a bottle of Pinot is a life skill you can never learn early enough.