Somehow, despite the toys I toss and the garbage bags I fill, The Stuff has acquired a sentience of its own

"That’s one small box for the house, one giant bag for the gemach,” said Neil Armstrong when he finally finished organizing the last of his kids’ closets.

I jest, of course; the sentence above was an obvious witticism (industry shorthand for what we in the journalism biz know as a “bald-faced lie”). No one has ever finished organizing the last of their kids’ closets. History books are replete with people whose last words were, “Wait, does anyone still wear this shirt?”

No sooner have you finally given that bag to the gemach — finally! — and sealed that last box of Girls’ Winter Tops Size 4-6 than will you find nestled in Yanky’s drawer, next to his Shabbos shirts but under his old spinner collection, that size 2 summer Shabbos dress that Shira hasn’t worn since she was a toddler. (Shira, of course, got her learner’s permit last week.)

No sooner have you finally counted all the tights and thrown out all the ripped pants than a freak heat wave comes and you need to find all the short-sleeved shirts again, and somehow, Mendy’s don’t fit him even though he wore them just last week. Whenever one door — er, drawer — closes, another opens, and you can’t even close it back, because it’s bulging with clothing that no one has ever worn.

“How can this be?” you may well ask, “I gave all the boys’ Shabbos vests to Tanta Dina in March! And I threw out the sticker albums last week!”