Travel gives wings to imagination
My wife and I should sell
our house and downsize to a two bedroom, one bath home. I repeatedly come to
this conclusion every time I step into our master bath where I find the boys'
pajamas lined up on my side of vanity. Each morning and night, I find their
toothbrushes resting on the rim of my sink, and fairly often their used Dixie
cups left in the sink. And scattered about the counter are the day's treasures
they've emptied from their pockets – rocks, toy parts, erasers, or other
odds and ends young boys might value.
Last night my son had a
coughing fit. He bolted out of bed and ran for the bathroom. Not the kids'
bathroom, which is a mere 5 paces from his bed. No, he tore off down the hall
for my bathroom where he proceeded to hock up a lung. He's fine. But this
incident and all the clutter illustrate the chronic syndrome of – kid creep.
Growing up, I hardly ever
stepped foot into my parents bedroom. A force-field guarded their space. You
could feel it as you approached the door – open or closed. A light knock
and a quiet "Mom . . . Dad?" announced our request to enter. It was hallowed
ground not to be disturbed by grubby little hands or horseplay.
Mom's vanity was a neatly
arranged display of all her dainty things with no remnant or evidence of four
sons in the vicinity. That was her sanctuary from the maelstrom of testosterone
whirling through the rest of the house.
Dad had primary ownership of
the real estate atop the dresser. At night he rested his wallet and comb on his
handkerchief next to his dad's pocket watch preserved under a glass dome. Dad
loved clocks and at the center of the dresser was a brass anniversary clock,
which never worked because opening and closing drawers would shake the dresser
and upset the pendulum.
Under a window and between
two chairs was a three-tier table. On it were several of Mom's porcelain
figurines and a tiny brass bell. I can remember wanting to ring that bell
because it had such a soft tone.
That same bell sits on a
lamp table in our bedroom and my sons were equally tempted by it, too. However
no force-field protects the master bedroom and that bell's clapper has gone
missing. Perhaps it'll turn up in a few years – when I open a vanity
drawer that is continually replenished with army men bits, micro-machines, and
the myriad collection of errant screws from the battery covers lost when
replacing run down toy batteries. Somewhere in there I had a nice razor and
grooming kit. Maybe I'll find those someday when a nearby black hole spits out
all those things that were displaced by kids' stuff.
Copyright 2009 by David Falloure
