There’s a few places in our house that’s looking a little too quiet these days.

For years, those brightly colored trucks, puzzles, oversized stuffiees with threadbare noses—they were everywhere. They were the soundtrack of our days: the zoom of a car hitting the wall, the clack-clack of giant Lego bricks scattered across the living room, and the squeak of a well-loved toy undergoing yet another wrestling match.

But then our boys—now 11 and 8—grew. Not in leaps or bounds, but in these gentle pushes: deeper conversations, strategic video-game moves, jokes caught in mid-air that I have to chase to understand. Between folding laundry and coaching football, I noticed those baby toys starting to pile up.

Giving them away felt… like giving up a part of our story.

It feels silly, doesn’t it? The sight of that plastic race track makes me smile and then pause: wasn’t that the one Oliver made us watch him race while we were trying to watch a movie? Then I see the Radio Flier that Jax and Ollie used to race everywhere— I’m hit with memory after memory of small hands clutching these toys as if they were truly the most important things in the world.

Of course they’re not too old for toys—not really. Kids don’t come with an expiration date on imagination. But those toys, they were for the tiny hands that are throwing fastballs on the baseball field. Those were the baby-safe blocks now replaced by dialogue about science projects and football playbooks.

Letting those toys go doesn’t feel practical—it feels profoundly emotional. It feels like a goodbye, even though I know what’s coming after this is so much bigger, better, and more wonderful.

I’m reminded that the things that mattered most weren’t the toys themselves, but those moments: the giggles as the Mighty Pups climbed the Paw Patrol Towers, the walks up the street in a push cart where Oliver stuffed acorns, rocks and sidewalk chalk, the bubble lawnmower Jax used before he learned to ride my tractor and the way those stuffed animals made a busy home feel warm, cozy, alive.

So yes—I’ll sort those toys, bag them up, drop them off, and maybe even help someone else’s kids play with them… but inside, I’ll carry every memory. Because growing up does mean saying goodbye to some things. But it doesn’t mean forgetting what made them magical in the first place.

Here’s to the next chapter—and maybe, someday, rediscovering that same magic in the toys that are just right for now.

Here’s to hoping these toys will give another family the same type of memories they helped us made all these years!