It started when my youngest son was 2. We’d go to the park, and he’d happily pile up leaves and sticks, sorting them by size and color. It was so charming, so educational, I thought.

When he went to preschool, he’d often discover a “treasure” on the way into the campus — a small bit of fuzz that fell off another kid’s backpack, a tiny lost button, an oversize piece of glitter. He would squeeze it tightly between his forefinger and his thumb so as not to lose it.

I’m not sure if he ever put it down, but when I picked up my toddler from school, he would be romping on the playground with finger and thumb still pressed together.

I was amazed and delighted at his focus and carefulness.

But now he’s 8, and his room overflows with all his “precious things”: shells and sea glass, sparkly bits of ribbon, broken crayons, paper clips and scraps of wrapping paper.

I have a collector.

I struggle to categorize and contain his ever-growing collections. He has neatly labeled bins and bags, but when new treasures are found daily, it’s difficult to keep things organized. I have an inbox for yet-to-be-sorted treasures and an outbox to reuse the emptied Ziploc bags he brings home from Grandma’s house filled with the day’s finds: three rubber bands, a dime, a feather.

He’s developed a preference for shorts with pockets, the better to store his treasures through the day. It amazes me that any child would want to sit through a day at school with a dozen small rocks in his pants, but that is the price he is willing to pay to fuel his passion.

He’s taken to using the objects he finds in collages and art projects. New discoveries mean new materials for his 3-D creations — animals made from bottle caps, a hat for his stuffed bear.

I could think of it as eco-friendly, finding new life for things others have discarded, but when volunteers clean the beach, they don’t usually want to take home all the straw wrappers they find.

I don’t want to dampen his enthusiasm, his creativity, his excitement. He mourns when I weed out the dried flowers starting to decay and the rusty bolt he sneaked into the house. “They’re not trash,” he cries. He sees beauty and wonder in it all.

But as the flotsam and jetsam starts to overflow the storage bins, the collections must be curated and cleaned out.

When I look at the chaos of his room, I take solace in the thought this is likely just a passing phase. One day not long from now, when his beloved prizes have lost their value, the cache has emptied and his room is finally neat, I will likely long for the days of finding him napping, chubby fingers wrapped possessively around a twig.

Or perhaps by then he will be collecting something else.

“She Speaks” is a weekly column by the women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Donica Kaneshiro at dkaneshiro@staradvertiser.com.