Less is more?

I'm feeling guilty. Is guilt the scourge of modern day living?

I roped the 16-year-old to help clear out the garage which has been slowly disappearing under piles of bikes, go karts, hockey gear and general rubbish for months. That's the first dose of guilt, why do we have all this stuff?

I've been trying to be less of a consumer for a while now and I recycle wherever I can, a bike and go kart that the 10-year-old no longer uses are about to go off to a new, younger owner. I try to live by the ethos of waste not, want not, to be less materialistic and I make regular trips to the charity shops.

The other morning the doorbell went and it was my postman. He'd seen a bag I'd put by the front door for a charity collection and wondered if I'd mind if he had the Lego for his little boy. He went away with the Lego and some books for his seven-year-old, I felt good and I'd got to know my postie (George) better.

It still doesn't change the fact though that the amount of gear in this house is appalling. The 10-year-old has boxes of toys he doesn't play with, I have far too many clothes, 12 pairs of boots at the last count. My aim is to reduce the amount of stuff to items that we actually need and use regularly and I've introduced a one in, one out policy for everything.

My other source of guilt is this, am I making life too easy for my kids? Am I giving them the tools they'll need to forge their own happy, independent, worthwhile lives or are they going to turn into indulged, spoilt namby pambies? When I told the 16-year-old we were tackling the garage, you'd have thought I'd told him he was about to trek up Everest in flip flops. Ten minutes in and he decided he deserved a break.

I'm currently researching my Irish roots, trying to find out more about my grandfather, who died when I was a baby, and his young life in a remote part of County Mayo in the early 20th century. The contrast between his life in 1911 and ours in 2011 couldn't be greater. The family was living in a one room, thatched house, all crammed in together, trying to live off the land in a resolutely bleak, boggy area. Seven children had been born, three had died before the age of five. The others were under pressure to leave as soon as they could, to support themselves. Jesus.

My boys romp around in a four bedroom, two bathroom house. They have their own den complete with TV, Wii, PS2, stereo. Pocket money drops into their account every month, they're warm, well fed, safe, healthy. I held out for a long time against mobile phones and neither will ever have a TV in his bedroom. The 16-year-old won't be getting a car for his 17th birthday, he'll be saving up to buy his own as I did, and he'll have to contribute financially if he wants to learn to drive.

I had a paper round as a teenager and then worked in my local hair salon. Sometimes it was boring and I'd rather have been out with my friends but I liked earning my own money and becoming independent. I remember the satisfaction of saving up to go on my first holiday without my parents, funnily enough to Ireland, pure co-incidence, I closed my eyes, stuck a pin in a map and that's where it landed.

I'm currently helping the 16-year-old look for a part-time job as if he feels hard done by spending more than 10 minutes clearing out the garage then he's in for a big shock when he goes out into the big, wide world, unless he finds a work ethic and fast. Life moves on, it progresses, but I don't want my kids taking what they have, how lucky they are, for granted.

Maybe I'm being overly dramatic but it's hard not to look around my home and the life we have and think how cushy it is compared to the one my grandfather was born into 100 odd years ago.