When my sister and I were little girls, we always whined that there was no Children’s Day–our complaint coming every year just in time for Mother’s Day. “Every day is Children’s Day,” Mom used to retort. Today, as I start to pile up moth-eaten coats and to tackle those boxes destined for the Harry Ransom Center, I’m thinking about how right she was. When my time is up, my attic will be nearly empty and mostly swept clean. Not much treasure, or trash, with which to contend. My kids will never have to throw away my leftovers, or, most importantly, know me as more than simply their Mom, unless they choose to go to the south-west and find the rest of me. Maybe that’s the greatest Children’s Day gift of all.