Wasteland of Forgotten Toys Basma Bsharat
“Mama?! Mama!” Adam’s booming voice landing ahead of him, the quickening of his steps moving closer until he bumped right into me. “Yes, Adam, sweetie? What is it?” I asked with a tight smile to hide my annoyance. The door from upstairs to down always landed whoever came down immediately into the center of the apartment. “Mama, mama, Teta is gonna take me to the park and to get ice cream!” I stared him down. “What?” he asked, making the most innocent face he could muster, a skill he’s developed well over the years. I said nothing, waiting. “Ohhhh,” he said finally, grinning, the space where the front bottom tooth was even more evident when he smiled that wide. “Mama, can I please go with teta to the park and to get ice cream?,” he asked, stretching out the “l” and “e” in the please. I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Fine. It’s almost five. You can go with teta now, but you’ve got to be back by seven to get ready for bed. Did you finish all your homework?”, and just like that, he was already running inside, grabbing his sweater and soccer ball. “Yes! Thank you mama!” “Yallah, Adam!,” my mother called from upstairs. I stood into the stairway, looking up. “Mom, please make sure he is back before seven!” Her head peaked down at me. “Tayeb, tayeb,” her voice more sarcastic than reassuring. “Bye, mama! Love you!” Adam shouted as he ran up the stairs, my mother’s voice muttering after him in Arabic. I sighed, looking back at the cramped apartment. Might as well take it as a chance to clean up a little bit. I walked to the doorway of my room, stepping on a miniature horse. Though Adam’s room was on the opposite side of mine, his belongings took up more space than his own little body did. I did a
quick sweep of the room. Books were thrown out of their shelves, laid around all over the floor. What was supposed to be an arrangement of stuffed animals became a messy pile of bears and other forest creatures. Snack bags, a pair of shoes, and Adam’s favorite blanket lay on the bed. And then there were the Legos. When Adam was young, I wanted so hard to give him nothing but the best. I would pour over article after article about child development, psychology, and titles like “Giving Your Child the Best Chance,” most of which resulted in failed attempts at limiting screen time, dragging a nine-month-old to “toddler times” that never worked because he was either red eyed from his last nap or fussy and wanting a new nap, and Legos. As I walked over and bent down to grab the miniature, I grabbed the book underneath, leather bound and with no title on the cover, remembering it wasn’t a book, but one of mu journals. My thoughts immediately drifted back to an image of a younger me, pen in hand and laptop beside me. At a certain point in time, before even getting pregnant with Adam, I had the secret hope that I could be a writer. I didn’t tell anyone, because even to say it aloud seemed silly. Even after having him, I remember sometimes pulling out my journal or laptop, either scribbling notes or typing up something in between breastfeeding sessions or doctor’s appointments, or even lunch breaks at work. But then work got busier, and Adam got older and more demanding. Eventually, my laptop became obsolete, and my journals became paperweights, memories that I put into the stored places where they sat now, collecting dust. I flipped through, stopping on a page and reading what I recognized started off as an old poem. And what you used to think was your room, your spaceIt’s now become nothing more than… 28
