Recently, I was packing up my two daughters’ Barbie collection. The “girls” are nine years apart and had both contributed to the collection. This added up to 35 years of Barbies to send to an eBay buyer.

I also played Barbies with my youngest granddaughter, who delighted in discovering the multitude of treasures found in drawers and cupboards throughout my home. She loved to pick the outfits (neon pink, voluminous)

Turns out, not really to my surprise, my daughter was less than thrilled by this activity. She’s trying really hard to raise her daughter with a positive image of the strong ideal woman she’ll grow up to be.

“There’s really no room here for misshapen high heeled feet or suggestive beauty pageant outfits,” she said.

I weakly protested something about developing manual dexterity but I get it, and I totally agreed with her. That’s when I decided to get rid of the collection and ruthlessly packed them up. (Ironically, my daughter later softened, as mothers do, and my granddaughter now has her own doctor, scientist, mommy and teacher Barbies with flat shoes and sneakers).

At first I looked at it as just another bit of clutter taken care of. The Barbie collection — accessories, bags of clothes, shoes, hair styling tools, a few Ken dolls, jeeps, boats, locker room, piano, etc., all of which I had, at one time, carefully separated into individual plastic bags — would free up quite a bit of storage space in my tiny new home. So, it was with a sigh of satisfied relief that I packed up and labeled the large box. I think though, the sigh was perhaps more of resignation.

And I wasn’t prepared for the feeling that wrapped around me like a foggy cloud and clenched at my heart. The wave of memories poured in — little girlfriends spending happy hours giggling, chatting and playing.

“What should she wear to the dance? No, I like that one better!”

Big brothers were sometimes conned into the game, which changed the focus. I particularly remember my son insisting on “Barbie goes Bungee Jumping” if he was going to play at all.

As I blink away my tears, I know it’s not the Barbies, it’s not any of the other “things” that have to be designated, discarded or downsized. It’s the memories. It’s the passing of time. It’s the remembering that child — your child — is no longer a child, but another, equally amazing grown up person.

It’s the getting older, or should I say old.

Martha Weiss lives in Aquinnah.