Planes, trains, and trains, and trains, and . . .

I wish I could figure out the genius behind "Thomas and Friends".  About a year ago, Ben watch one episode and suddenly wanted nothing more than to watch it again.  Now, not a day goes by that he doesn't play with his toy trains.  He knows every one of their names, knows the "Thomas Song".

The premise is ridiculously simple:  Talking trains being "Very useful", while having their own personal traits usually hurting THEN helping the scenarios as they play out.  They interact and talk to other trains and humans.  

Haha!  OK, even simpler version:  it's a bunch of brightly colored trains, that talk and mimic the personalities of little kids!  As with many/most kids' programs, if you try to find reason or put anything near a deep into it, you've already gone too far, walk away, read a book, delve into social media . . . or sit and learn the lyrics to the damn songs.  

As a guy who has his own passions, interests and hobbies, I'm happy to see Ben enjoying one thing in particular.  If nothing else, it has been helping mom, dad and the grandparents out ten fold when it comes to finding a gift, book, stickers etc. that will tickle him the right way.  This weekend, we plan to head to the Railroad Museum of Pennsylvania, which should make his head swirl, inciting toddler drunkenness, which can lead into toddler grumpiness and moodiness when getting ready to leave, as we saw at a model train expo not all that long ago.    

A guessing game I can't help but pay with myself as I watch him send Thomas around the track is "how long will he be into this?" and, moreover, "what's next?!".  It could be anything, but for now time for a beer as he drifts off to sleep on his Thomas pillow.  

Toy (bleeping!) land

Of course with the Christmas season at full speed, my thoughts turn to, of course all the crap my kid will hull in.  What toy will litter my living room, jab me in the foot, be eaten by the cat and/or Ben?  What toy will I find in my basement 5 years after he's moved out and be bugging him, as my mom and dad have my siblings and I, to PLEASE take it with him to HIS house the next time he visits? 

I've accepted the fact that I can't stop the gifts from coming.  I've accepted that there are parts of my house I won't see for years, buried beneath Birthday, Christmas's and "Just Because"s of the past; corners of rooms becoming archaeological dig sites by the time he's 18.  

I accept it because, yep, my parents did and are still asking me to take things with me I had long forgotten about.  So it's obligatory anyway.  I accept it because if he is happy, and getting him things makes whomever it might be happy, then who am I to deny happiness? 

Toys strewn across every inch of carpeting, could also be a teaching point, such as:  "Clean up your toys before daddy accidentally steps on them and breaks them!"  My dad stepped on things and broke them. I never saw the genius in that until now.  Mom probably helped in the stepping.  The thought of a destroyed toy, at any age, is enough motivation for most.  Unless you have a spoiled brat who say, "Go ahead, grandma will buy me another!" gaaaaaah! 

There are all sorts of positive thoughts to keep me sane, like:  "Well, when Ben buys us that new house, we can get the movers to box it all up." and "At least Ben got his third doctorate, paid off his college debt on his own and makes 6 digits."  oh, and "Ben did help us retire at 60 a few toys in the basement don't matter much."

Or, in another scenario, when no one else is in the room and Thomas the Tank Engine (and Friends) is stepped on for the 5th time that day, it might fly like a majestic reindeer down our decked halls.  

One of my favorite memories with my dad was taking him the toys where assembly was required.  We'd sit and put together, what looked to me, like a complicated mass of plastic parts which would eventually become a G.I. Joe jet or Heman's castle.  LEGOS were a great past-time for my dad and I, and eventually, my brother and I; we'd sit and create something using the directions or our imaginations as our guide.  Then dad or mom would step on one . . .