Somewhere Out There

Flying pig

Somewhere out there a room is filled with flying pigs, camels that have passed through the eye of a needle, a parka-wearing devil, a palm with a beard growing in it, a molehill mountain, a writer who can’t think of another adynaton.


Something miraculous happened in my house yesterday.

I looked at the floor of my living room, filled with toys. I put the empty toy basket on the ground. I said to my son, “Your uncle is coming over soon. Let’s pick up some of these toys.”

Then, like the good mother I am, I walked away so I could take a shower. But that whole “not following through” thing actually worked. Because when I came downstairs, the toys had been put in the basket. And the basket hefted to the window seat where it typically sits (or not typically, since the toys are rarely ever put away).

I was impressed. But with the wrong person at first. I said to my husband, “Wow. Thanks for putting the toys away. Did he [our son] help you at all?”

To which my husband replied, “I didn’t do anything.”

Then I looked at my almost-4-year-old, who was acting very bashful, and said, “Did you do this all by yourself?” And he nodded.

Well, color me surprised! I gave him a HUGE hug.

Without any begging, bribing, prodding, yelling, crying, or discussing, my son put the toys away by himself. And I didn’t touch a single one. There has got to be a certificate or a medal or a trophy to mark this occasion, right? For the both of us.

What’s next? World peace? Balancing the federal budget? Solving the Rubik’s Cube? Clearly the impossible is possible.



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