The Object in Question
So. I have a million little boys. A million little boys and all their paraphernalia. That means CARS, trucks, fire trucks, dump trucks, crane trucks. It means trains. Three train sets, to be exact. It means Lego’s. Like six sets of Lego’s. It means books about trucks, from Tons of Trucks to Little Blue Truck and Little Blue Truck Leads the Way to an ancient book about fire trucks that belonged to Daddy. It means that Mommy’s antique Paddington Bear – a purchase by my precious parents before they had children – gets ignored. His boots get taken off and chucked into their closet. It means that little boys think the greatest part of their day – aside from when Daddy gets home – is lining their cars up in neat little rows, then screaming at each other when a brother DARES to touch it. It means I have at least three scars on one foot from matchbox cars and their deadly car-parts. It means that we have all slipped and fallen and gotten great gross purple bruises. It means that when one of the boys gets blessed (read – Mommy groans) with yet another car-themed gift from excited Grandparents (because our parents taught us well and toys-purchasing is an indulgence around here; apparently that doesn’t apply to Grandparents) like Sammy the Sea Patrol, they pour over the included page of additional toys provided by the brilliant toymaker we could buy (read – they KNOW what suckers we parents are) for hours saying well, I want this one, and this one and that one and this one … etc etc etc. A conversation with Sagan the other day went thus:
-Sagan (sneaking out of quiet time in the afternoon) GOOD MORNING MOMMY! (Don’t ask. I have no idea. I’ve tried to fix it but he is convinced you say Good Morning every time you exit a bedroom)
-Mommy (eh, quiet time is almost over regardless and I could use some cuddle-time with my Little Man) Yes, Sagan Michael?
-Sagan: Mommy! Quiet time is all done. Can you please read me this? (holds up giant flier with pictures of toys he believes to be in his future)
-Mommy: Um … (Brain says – this is a bad, bad, bad idea Dia) Ok, love. But we’re just looking and imagining, ok? We don’t need any of these toys.
-Sagan: Ok. Thanks!
-Sagan: I want this one, and this one, and this one, and uh – not that one! It’s a girl color! Oh, but yeah -Mommy, I want this one, too. I really do. You can buy it for me if you like. (I am not kidding. He really did say that)
-Mommy: (Sigh) Sagan Michael, we don’t need any of those toys. You have more than enough and you need to be thankful for what you already have.
-Sagan: Oh. Ok, Mommy. Then CADEN can have this one, and this one and this one and this one and that one and this one. And Baby ALAN can have that one and this one and this one and maybe this one, too.
-Mommy: (Lord, what do I do???? This is too cute but I know this is a lesson I need to jump on.)
-Sagan: (VICTORY!) So. What do you think, Mommy?
-Mommy: Sagan Michael, we’re not going to get any of these right now. How about you pick one for Caden, Baby Alan and yourself to ask for Christmas?
-Sagan: (VICTORY) (In Ridiculously-Loud-Voice-That-Made-Me-Spill-My-Tea-(GRAVITY)-And-I-Am-Convinced-Woke-My-Long-Suffering-Baby) OH! THAT’S A GREAT IDEA, MOMMY! Then I want this one, and this one and this one. And Caden can have this one, and this one and this one. And Baby Alan, well, he can have this one, and this one and this one.
-Mommy: Keep dreaming, kiddo.
-Sagan: Beams. He is proud. He thinks he has won.
-Mommy: I need more tea. (Tea – British style, of course – is this mama’s wine)