I would never call myself a pack rat or a person who enjoys living in clutter. But if you were to look around the apartment space I share with my daughter, Eleni, you’d be tempted to call me out on that. Though (sigh…), things weren’t always this way.

Eight years ago, this July, I received a referral photo of a beautiful, moon-faced baby in China. As I gazed into her little eyes, I realized that I was about to become a mother — and I flew into a clean-and-purge rage. That summer, as my friends and neighbors were wilting in the heat and humidity, I feverishly pulled things from closets, gave away clothes, meticulously filed papers, and obsessively cleaned and scrubbed until it was time to leave for the airport. Two weeks later, I arrived home with Eleni. My life and apartment haven’t been the same since.

These days I’m a single parent, with less time and energy to hunt dust bunnies, wash streaked windows, organize kitchen cupboards, and purge bathroom cabinets of makeup I no longer wear. But I also admit I’ve been a slowpoke (and a bit of a sap) about parting with certain items from the past.

For instance, there’s the beat-up purple silk jacket that I can’t bear to give away. Why? Nine years ago, as I ran around town tracking down all the documents I needed to apply for Eleni’s adoption, this coat was my constant companion. Today, it seems like an old, trusted friend, though I haven’t worn it in years.

Then there are the baby bottles, the boxes of toys, board books, videos, and clothing from every stage of Eleni’s life. Each object tells a story, encapsulating a moment from bygone years.

When I look at Eleni’s stroller — the small, fold-up model that I purchased in China, not the other two that keep it company in the closet — I recall our first day together and how she clung to me.

I remember how I held Eleni for as long as I could, then put her down and gave her a fun, wiggly ride. Within minutes, she was laughing and shaking her chubby little legs, acknowledging that I (a nervous new mom) was really OK and that the two of us would be fine. I can reminisce in the same way about Eleni’s toddler pajamas, a certain fuzzy sweater, and a lion cup we bought at the zoo. Each item carries its own memories, and tugs at me to hold onto it.

When Eleni was two or three, I hung on to her baby clothes and other gear for a different reason — in case I decided to adopt again. But as the years have worn on, the reality of a second child has grown more and more distant. Now that I’m 50, it’s hard to see myself going back to changing diapers, waking throughout the night, or teaching a child to use the toilet. (Particularly now that my eight-year-old can bathe on her own, read to herself, and help me find my keys when I lose them.)

Still, there’s a nagging part of me that longs for those innocent days. When I find myself holding a pair of tiny floral-print stretch pants, smelling a favorite blanket, or poring through an old bedtime book, I realize I’m not quite ready to let go. So while the boxes mount, the strollers collect, and my daughter gets older by the minute, I — for the moment, at least — am resigned to living in my beautiful clutter.