What if they grow up to be Picasso?

I'm sitting here at my desk and the smell of Barbasol is overwhelming. Right next to my laptop, at the apex of a toppling pile of preschool masterpieces (merely one of many such piles dotting my household landscape), sits an eleven by seventeen sheet of paper covered in a smelly, puffy, mint-green concoction of shaving cream and glue. And while I'm confident that Bugglegirl's preschool instructors could offer up a ten minute treatise on its developmental necessity in promoting tactile stimulation, fine motor skills and right-brain augmentation, one reality remains: I haven't the foggiest idea what the hell to do with it.

I'm drowning here, people.

How is it even possible for two children, with a combined age of only six and a half years, to generate so much paperwork? I've worked in animation, in publishing, IN STATIONERY, for God's sake, and I've never seen so many scraps and sheets strewn about.

The other day I was over at my neat friend's house. It is utterly immaculate - no dishes, no junk mail, no errant socks - which she will insist is due to the fact that they are trying to sell it, but I know better. She is one of those clutter-proof souls, those totally infuriating people who inspire me, after I return home, to dash breathlessly from room to room, frantically seeking something, anything, that I can throw into the garbage or donate to Goodwill to placate my inadequacy.

So I started quizzing her: What about the school artwork? The torn-out, half-completed coloring book pages? She winced, just a wee bit, and in a noticeably lowered voice she admitted: I throw it all away.

PARDON? My head started reeling. She might as well have told me that she'd shredded the Dead Sea Scrolls. Really? She proceeded to tell me that she does keep the special holiday projects, and that she expects to preserve more art as the boys get older. As I sat there listening, a curious wave of conflicting emotion washed over me - the same feeling I get when I'm watching the E! channel and Pamela Anderson flashes (practically) across the screen: horrified. . .yet, intrigued.

But I just can't get rid of it all. I harbor a guilty sense of sentimentality that results in my reluctance - and often, my downright inability - to part with mementos (have I told you about my cocktail napkin collection from elementary school?). At the same time, I can't function in this never-ending ticker-tape madness any longer.

So, myself and I have reached a compromise: stash some, trash some, send the rest to the grandparents. I'm going to curb, if not purge, this needless nostalgia.