Wasteland of Forgotten Toys

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 space

It’s now become nothing more than…

A wasteland of forgotten toys and broken lego pieces.

I flipped again, this time stopping on a page that was folded in half and placed inside. On the back of the page was a small note; for Adam- when you’re older…It was my handwriting, yet somehow I could not remember writing it. I opened the page, reading not a handwritten, but typed-up letter:

Adam,

I love you so much, Mama. The rest of what I am going to tell you here, I hope I will be able to teach you myself as you grow up. But just in case I don’t get to, I wanted to make sure you knew. 1. I am learning as I go. I don’t always have the answers, but I try my best. I promise, I do.

Please be patient with me. 2. Throughout my life, I’ve heard it. As you get older, you will probably hear it too. I’m almost afraid to say it, it’s such an overused cliché.

“My heart walking around outside my body.”

But it’s true, just as most clichés tend to be.

Sometimes I look at you and think- you used to be mine, all mine. I felt your heart beat inside me before anyone else, the flutter of your kicks a secret language between just you and me.

But you’re not mine. You are you. Somehow, I was blessed enough to be able to have you all to myself for a little bit of time. So I tell you this now, my sweet little boy. Many times, others will tell you what they expect of you, what they want of you. That is a reflection of them, not you. I hope that I can teach you values to which you can hold dear to your heart and follow. Use them to judge what you want to do with your life. Trust yourself, and never lose sight of who you are. 3. Eventually, and you maybe probably already have, you will hear it: “You have to be a man.” You’ll hear comments like, “big boys don’t cry,” too, quite often. Real men do cry.

Everyone does. We cry, we laugh, we feel. It’s all a part of being human. And ignore anyone who tells you otherwise. Being vulnerable is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign of strength.

I promise you that.

I love you always,

Mama

I looked at the letter, then back at the leatherbound journal, remembering how it used to feel writing. There would be those moments where a certain string of words just sounded so right together, like the beautiful melody of a song. Or a sinking, aching feeling just wouldn’t leave my chest until I had allowed it to leave its mark somewhere. At one point, the words I produced, the recording of my thoughts, were all that seemed to keep my entire being from falling apart. When my marriage hit its absolute lowest, and I had to finally accept it was over. I lost everything then. My marriage, my home, my old life. The hope that we could ever be a “normal” family. And yet, while I was losing control in everything else, I had my writing. It, besides Adam, was all I had.

And yet somehow, without realizing, I lost it. I allowed it to fade. Picking up a book and writing out my thoughts went from a passion to a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore. Adam grew older, and the demands of balancing work and a life of single motherhood grew more and more difficult. It was always just so much easier to focus on what I had to do, what we needed to survive, what Adam needed.

Now what?

I stared at the empty page, tapping the pen on the edge of the stained coffee table. Sometimes, the idea of the thing is much more appealing than the reality…

And with that, I heard the squeak of the rickety hinge on our door open and shut. The familiar pitter -patter of footsteps. And Adam charge through, a little leap at the last step before running into the room and onto my lap. “Booooo! It started to rain!” he shouted with a giggle. I looked over at him, his big round eyes staring back at me.

“Did you miss me?”

“Always.”

And his body fit right into mine, hugging me tightly. The journal was shut, the pen put down and placed back on the table. I could always dream. But right now, in this moment, this was all I needed.