Bath Toy as Metaphor
(with props to my pal, T.S.)The rubby dubbies, they grow mold;
They shall wear their trousers rolled.
I spend entirely too much time schooling betterhalf on the finer points of ‘bath toy’ versus ‘not bath toy’. While it might seem obvious to you or I that most things squeezy, foamy, spongy or soapy would be considered ‘bath toy’ and most things flocked, stuffed, edible, metal or electrical would easily come under the 'not bath toy' category, the same reasoning does not necessarily lend itself as readily to the daddymind.
Not that El is any help, she once used a stuffed lamb to clean up a spilled sippy of milk with the simple calculation of: towels are white and fluffy + lamb is white and fluffy = lamb is towel. Therefore when she asks that her HotWheels ™ accompany her into the drink, betterhalf finds this to be a logical request.
I thought it would be an easy task to explain why some materials don’t do as well when soaked in bathwater as others. Metal rusts, stuffing gets smelly, scrambled eggs get nasty and blow dryers just kill you (if the scrambled eggs don’t do you in first). Foam fish, little plastic men in little plastic boats and our beloved yellow “rubby dubbies” all float on top of the water, while the moisture gracefully beads off of their respective surfaces. These things make sense to me, though I guess I could stretch my imagination to see how they would not make sense to a 33-year-old man. Wet and dry. Land and sea. Everything in its place.
Until the day betterhalf pointed out that the rubby dubbies seemed to be looking darker. I took a look and went over them with a washcloth to no avail. I then peeked into what serves as their squeak/leak hole on the bottom and lo and behold—something was growing inside of them.
Despite the careful construction, the correct materials, the proper drainage system, we had moldy ducks. My worldview was suddenly thrown for a loop. Wet was dry, sea was land--I was through the looking glass; I was a duck.
I could be the perfect person in the perfect place doing the perfect thing. I could have all the right tools and coping skills for life and still, slowly, some awful gunk could creep its way up and begin growing inside of me.
I’m not sure how long I sat there holding the damn duck, wondering if I should figure out a way to clean its insides out or if I should just pitch it. It’s still sitting there on a shelf in the bathroom, another victim of wonder and indecision, the gunk still gathering.
I have heard the duckies quacking, each to each;
I do not think they will quack to me.
posted by tumpover @ 2:36 PM
1 Comments:
Then bleach in a bucket is a metaphor for...hmmmm...therapy?
Miss you!
Stella
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