“The Day I Threw Out the Toy Kitchen (and Nobody Died)”
It started on a Tuesday — the kind of Tuesday where I’d already reheated my coffee three times and found a half-eaten waffle in my purse.
My toddler, Queen of Chaos and Crumbs, was in full form. She had just “made soup” in her plastic toy kitchen using real water, three My Little Ponies, and what I sincerely hope was just a baby wipe. As I stepped barefoot onto a Lego shaped like vengeance, I looked around and thought, This is not what Martha Stewart meant by “open concept living.”
I declared, out loud and to no one in particular, “I’m DONE. We’re decluttering.”
My 9-year-old looked up from her slime (which I still don’t understand but have accepted as her religion) and asked, “Does that mean we’re throwing out the couch?”
“No,” I said. “Just everything else.”
And so, I Marie Kondo’d the living room with the enthusiasm of a woman on the edge. The toy kitchen? Gone. The broken Peppa Pig tea set? See ya. The six bins of mismatched doll shoes and decapitated Barbies? Salvation Army’s problem now.
For a moment, I worried. Was I scarring them for life? Would they remember this as the day Mom lost it and turned into a minimalist dictator?
But here’s what happened:
No one cried.
No one noticed the toy kitchen was gone.
They played with a cardboard box for 45 minutes.
And I? I sat on the decluttered floor and drank a hot coffee like a woman reborn.
Minimalism and motherhood are not natural roommates. One loves order. The other creates laundry piles that qualify as geological formations. But somewhere between the chaos and the clean lines, there’s a sweet spot — where you own less, yell less, and step on fewer Legos.
And that, my friends, is the dream.
The Great Toy Purge: A Minimalist Mom’s Battle
I knew I had a problem when I found a plastic dinosaur in my coffee mug.
Not just any dinosaur—a tiny, smug-looking T-Rex, wedged between my morning caffeine and my last shred of sanity.
That was the moment I decided: Enough. We are decluttering.
Step One: The Negotiation
I gathered my six-year-old son, who had somehow amassed more toys than a small daycare center, and announced, “We’re getting rid of things we don’t use.”
He looked at me like I had suggested we burn down the house for warmth.
“But I use ALL of them!” he protested, clutching a half-broken action figure missing an arm.
“Really? When was the last time you played with this?” I asked, holding up a stuffed octopus with one eye.
“Yesterday.”
Lies.
Step Two: The Resistance
I tried the “Does this bring you joy?” method. Everything brought him joy. Even the empty Play-Doh containers.
I tried the “If it’s broken, it goes” rule. “But it’s still good!” he wailed, as I held up a puzzle missing five pieces.
I tried the “If it doesn’t fit, donate it” strategy. “But I might grow back into it!” He was six.
Step Three: The Secret Purge
That night, after bedtime, I did what every minimalist mom eventually does: I snuck into his room and made executive decisions.
The headless dolls? Gone.
The mystery puzzle pieces with no puzzle? Gone.
The toy car that made siren noises at 3 AM? GONE.
I stuffed two garbage bags full and hid them in the trunk of my car like a criminal disposing of evidence.
Step Four: The Aftermath
The next morning, my son walked into his room, looked around, and said: “Wow, it feels so nice in here!”
He didn’t even notice what was missing.
Meanwhile, I sipped my coffee—dinosaur-free—and basked in the glory of a decluttered life.
Minimalism isn’t just about less stuff—it’s about less chaos, fewer battles, and more room to breathe.
And sometimes, it’s about strategic or secret nighttime purging.
Simply Sanely
As moms, it effects us more than it does the owners of the toys. Out of sight, out of mind. All they truly need is LOVE, love. Love is all you need.