I noticed a small plastic bin filled with toys in the hallway outside of my son’s bedroom the other day. In the bin, there was a clear, zippered top bag which contained my middle son’s remaining collection of spinning toys whose name I can no longer remember, as well as other random possessions of his and his brothers’.
I took a moment to look through the abandoned detritus of boyhood. How could I not?
The bag hosted an array of transportation vehicles but, sadly, there wasn’t a single Thomas train. I found myself missing that blue tank engine, along with Henry and Percy and Gordon and James, in a way that pales in profoundness to the way I miss the boys who devotedly played with them.
There was a time when my house was home to three sons and countless wooden trains. Now, there’s just one child left.
Nestled into the bin, there’s also a heavy, rubber snake purchased on a long ago trip to the Pacific Northwest. After a week’s vacation in Washington with my then husband and our friends, I traveled solo with the boys across the Columbia River and down the coast of Oregon.
On a summer day that felt very hot, we went to the zoo in Portland and G insisted he needed that toy snake. It was me, a 7 year old, a 5 year old and Q, barely a baby in my belly and still seemingly unsure if he was going to be the pregnancy that finally stuck.
G got the snake.
I never would have imagined that 5 or 6 years later my new normal would be, just like that road trip, me and the boys. Nor would I have predicted that that time with my children would have left such an impression on me. I reflect back on that trip, the boys’ births, and a few selected races, when I’m seeking a reminder of my own capabilities and strength.
Accomplishments like a successful vacation with two small boys, while pregnant (after a series of miscarriages), can provide a genuine sense of achievement.
Most of parenting, however, does not.
This week my youngest child turns 17, which means that PNW road-trip was more than 17 years ago. Since then, there have been many trips with, and for, my sons, literally and figuratively. As a parent, I’ve always believed that one of my most important responsibilities is to show my children as much of the world as possible. Like that trip to Oregon so many years ago, complete with a rental car breakdown in the middle of a busy bridge, followed by our witnessing a car crash minutes later, travel comes with the potential for peril.
Just like life.
As my youngest son grows closer to adulthood and independence, I hope that he’s prepared to navigate the obstacles which may appear in his path. These are challenging times for young people with constant digital pressures, disrupted educational systems and a deep political divide in our country. I wouldn’t want to be a teen today.
As my sons step increasingly farther into their future, I’ll hold on to memories of trains and trips and toys. Unlike my sons, that bin of toys isn’t going anywhere.
