I am sitting at our vintage Mid-Century tulip table. I look to my left and I see our Bertoia Chairs that make us feel hip. In front of those chairs is the Craiglist find of the year – a hand-made coffee table made from the cross section of a tree trunk. We even painted a green stripe on the wall behind it to pull all of the colors together. It is our proudest corner.
So perfect and so not reality.
Mocking me in this perfect corner is a Rody purple blow-up pony with big anime eyes and a white heart tattoo in the middle of its forehead. Damn it’s hideous.
Over the past 2 years, the slow invasion of plastic gives me more anxiety than I like to admit. I loathe clutter with the wrath of a thousand angry goats. It makes me feel out-of-control.
Your mother exerts a herculean effort in staying on top of it all. But alas, the raw destructive energy of a 2-year-old is one of life’s great mysteries.
Unfortunately, you are at a distinct disadvantage in the ‘Stuff War.’ First of all, you are tiny compared to me. Second, you sleep more than I do. You also eat strapped to your chair. I don’t. In short, I am profoundly in control of your things.
One of your biggest failings, though, is that you lack mental faculties to construct a sense of importance around your toys. You can’t defend your princess castle by claiming it is a hard-to-find, mid-century princess castle. You like the way it balances old vintage with your clean and modern ladybug scooter.
To you, nothing is a “find.” It just exists to entertain you. It also helps your brain develop but that is boring to you right now.
There is honesty to this that I crave. You destroy your toys because to you, they are just that. Their specialness does not extend past their ability to entertain you.
I wish I never outgrew this simplicity.
With the coming of Christmas (possibly your greatest weapon in our war) I hereby throw up the white flag. So, bring on the plastic.
I will let it taint our thoughtfully designed home with a full heart knowing that you are happy and that you simply don’t give a shit. Perhaps someday, I too can learn not to give a shit.
Wyoming born. Arizona raised. Believer. Husband. Dad. Sports Reporter. Pineapple hater. Trying to live a life of gratitude.