Friendly Forks and Balloons (09-15-2006)

I started a blog at Blogger because I changed email addresses and forgot my password at Wordpress. Most of the stuff I've written over the years is kind of dumb, but some of it might be worth preserving. I'm copying it over here so that when I forget my login info again, I can just copy it from this one place.

There is a new name around our household. Much like the bar from the all-time favorite, Cheers, Norm is often mentioned with great affection these days. At this point, I should probably mention that Norm is a balloon. Not just any ol’ run-of-the-mill, normal balloon, no! Norm is a popped balloon. Amelia deliberately popped the last balloon from Naomi’s birthday, and named the little rubber skin Norm. She had made a little bed for Norm (who is a girl, by the way), out of cling wrap, and at night, Amelia gently wads up her little friend in the plastic film (don’t try this with REAL friends), and stuffs her into a closet built into a “Little People” stair case. I am hoping that one day Norm will go off to Hogwarts to become a famous wizard…(okay, I’ll admit: I read too much Harry Potter).

I got in trouble the other night because I was being too loud. Amelia was afraid I was going to wake Norm. Being the wonderfully sensitive father that I am, I replied “But you already killed Norm when you popped him.” (I assumed Norm was a boy, but I was sternly corrected for that, too). Fortunately, my callous tone went unnoticed, and Amelia gently explained that Norm wasn’t Norm until she had popped the balloon. (There’s probably some kind of metaphor potential here, but I will have to save it until a good moment).

Arden is developing quite an imagination as well. Naomi claims that I have a knack for personifying mundane household items, but I don’t believe her. Arden has apparently inherited my alleged imaginative tendencies. She has two-way conversations between stuffed animals, dolls, Little People, and silverware.

I remember her dropping a fork onto the seat at Cracker Barrel one evening. Being the sterile and conscientious father that I am, I blew it off and said “I think it will be alright; it just landed on the chair,” as I handed the utensil back to her grabbing hands. She looked the fork square in the…uhm…fork-equivalent of a face? and asked it if it was ok. “I will be alright,” the fork replied, throwing its Ardenesque voice to give the appearance of Arden speaking, “I just landed on the chair.” Since then, I have caught several discussions between forks and spoons.

My mom likes to tell the story of one of my favorite toys as a kid. Apparently, I when I was younger, I had a SpiderMan action figure. It was one of the larger ones with many joints and changeable outfits. (Like a Ken Doll, only much, much cooler) Over time, the dol..er…action figure broke, and most of the accessories disappeared. The only thing I had left was the SpiderMan suit, which became a persona all its own: Spider-Clothes! Spider-Clothes used to fly around the house having all kinds of adventures and saving many a damsel and many a day. Genetics is a funny thing, as I see hints of Spider-Clothes in Norm (I would have guessed that the S-C gene would have been recessive), and personification of stuffed animals and assundry knick-knacks in Arden’s conversaions (I was lonely as an only child).

A child’s imagination is wonderful. It’s refreshing to see them living in their own fantastic realms, where dolls (and forks) talk, and ripped balloons make wonderful friends. More than just the activeness of their daydreaming minds, though, it’s refreshing to see the lack of pretense as they carry on with their fantasies without a single care as to what others will think. Arden isn’t concerned that I’m going to send her to the Loony Bin because forks don’t talk, and Amelia isn’t worried that I’m going to send her to a shrink to discuss “Norm”. It’s humbling, because they live out their whimsies and dreams with far fewer reservations than I have doing perfectly mundane activities. As I pull up to a redlight, I stop singing, becuase I don’t want the people in the cars next to me to know that — GASP — I sometimes sing on my commute.

Maybe I should scrounge through my old toy boxes in my parents attic. When my pretentious lips freeze as a car pulls up to me, maybe I should force myself to pull Spider-Clothes out from my arm rest and start flying him around the car at the redlight. I think it would do wonders for my spirit and attitude to indulge in a little child-like wonder, and I think Spider-Clothes will keep me good company in my padded cell.