In the Museum of Children’s Toys and Little Trains live the forgotten fantasies of us adolescents. The bobbing motion of the white rocking horse, the colourful pieces of a jumbled puzzle, the scratched paintwork of little cars and little buses that have long lost their tires, and the whirring and clanking of metal wheels against little railway tracks compete with flashing planes suspended from the ceiling for the attention of buried memories. Memories buried beneath under the surface the realisations and worries of adulthood as we each grow older.
Aslan ran around the museum excitedly, his screams and babble audible throughout the museum. There was a time when I played with little model railways, and imagined myself taking long journeys to lands far, far away as the trains sped around and around along the same tracks. Each round taking me further and further away from the real world, and into a world of my own that is where everything is pretty and where imaginings are real. On Christmas Day when I was twelve, I was told that I am too old for toys. And I have never seen them since.
But Aslan returned the toys to me, and in a number of different ways. Ever since he appeared in my life, I would venture into toy stores again, even if it is just to look and see what kids play these days. And at times I would think to myself what I could possibly buy him that would capture his wandering little mind for more than five minutes. For the past week or so staying with him in his little bedroom, I am surrounded by baskets and baskets of colourful playthings that sometimes unexpectedly make funny music and queer little noises when you accidentally step on them. Aslan does not seem to be too interested in his toys, even though he is only 18 months. He seems to have more fun with the buttons on the DVD player, and with taking out the shiny discs and putting it in again. And then taking the disc out again, playing around with it with his pudgy little fingers, before dragging it on the floor. Of course, he does not yet understand what scratches can do to a DVD.
Joy is also to be had when he presses the on/off button while you are trying to vacuum. On. Off. On. Of. Again. And again. And again. I get annoyed and tell him to stop, but he does it again and again. I want to raise my voice, but seeing his big inquisitive eyes staring back at me, I cannot but think to myself that it is his nature to play, and try to find another way of getting on with my ‘adult’ tasks. The washing machine with its electronic display, dials and buttons is also fast becoming another one of his favourite ways to pass time. The wet floor that has soiled his trousers and sleeves, and the washing powder in his hair does not seem to be cause for concern for him. Was I as curious as he was at his age? Was I as intelligent as he is, or is sure to become?
And how Aslan loves to bathe! Getting wet is his gift to anyone who has the fortune of having to bathe him. And I have willingly accepted that fortune, knowing very well that my clothes will be soaked and my hair drenched after he has had his fair share of splashing and rolling around the bath tub like a fish in water. Seeing him enjoy sponging himself as he watches his baby shampoo bottle bob up and down in the bubbly bathtub makes it all worthwhile.
Who would have thought that he has grown so big? And his voice so loud, his screams so penetrating? More and more, he has a temper of his own. And when it pleases him, he can throw a tantrum by rolling around on the floor and crying his tears out one minute, and the next he can climb back on his pudgy little feet again, and run around the bedroom as if the hideous fit moments before were all a planned and well-enacted scene.
But strangely, when his mother is away, he becomes ever so quiet, ever peaceful. As if his fits of baby fury were all meant to torment his poor mother who’ s not had a good night of unbroken sleep ever since he was born. A mother’s consolation of hearing from strangers and friends that the boy in her arms is so cute and so beautiful. And that Aslan certainly is. And a mother’s joy that overshadows whatever havoc and (dis)stress the baby can possibly cause is in watching the child’s eyes slowly close as he rests his head lovingly on your lap.
It is a sight that even angels would vie to catch a glimpse of.
