March 4th - Bath Toys
Bath Toys
The shower is hot, and it feels good to get the day’s grime off. I don't have to be anywhere so I'm taking my sweet time. Five minutes pass and I still haven't reached for the soap. I notice for the millionth time the plastic bin of toys in the left corner of the shower stall. It occurs to me that my children haven't played with that bin of figurines in two to three years at least. I search myself for any desire to pick one up and make-believe that one of the figurines is alive. What would it do, what would it say? I can picture my son lining them all up through the house when he was still a tiny little guy, silent as he drew a meticulous line of them as if he was unfolding his wealth. Or he'd make two lines of them, standing face to face, and debate out loud who would win in a battle, taking just two at a time. He'd talk it out, debating each special ability, offensive merit, and defense ability each possesses before declaring a victor and flicking the loser onto its back, moving to the next pair facing off and repeating the same game till he finished with the lot of them. My daughter played with these same toys like they were her friends. She'd sit in the bath or shower narrating relationships. When she'd put the little plastic cars through the hand-winding car wash, there were people driving them. They weren't just objects that went vroom. They were people with families and work to get done. Sometimes the people driving those cars would leave the carwash and immediately drive through a muddy puddle, having little choice but to loop back around and go back through the carwash again. It was always important to her that I listen to the stories, and if she felt my attention wander, she'd snap me back with a question about a detail to fill in or question a practical accuracy like, "don't you think so dad?" I had forgotten how much I loved that.
I woke from this beautiful memory to my surroundings. Still in the shower staring at toys. Nope, I still don't have any desire to play with these things. I soap up and get clean, still absentmindedly staring at the bin of toys. Little droplets of soapy water are deflecting off me and misting into the bin of toys. "They're probably covered in mold," I think to myself. "I should run them through the dishwasher."
After the shower I load the dinosaurs, caped heroes, farm animals, the 1966 Batmobile, an exotic menagerie, and the car wash into the dishwasher. They stare up at me from the silverware caddy with their beady eyes as I close them in. Then I go to the store to buy some beer.
I don't know how I could describe being an adult any better.