Looking onto the toy invasion that is our basement, I have to admit, I’m pretty proud of myself. Our children are spoiled rotten and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Money may not be able to buy love, but I’m fairly sure fire trucks can.
However, there is one place that remains unchanged after 5 plus years of baby having: the bathtub. Our bathtub is a museum dedicated to the go go 2008’s. There are a couple squishy plastic fishes. A couple squishy plastic sharks and a couple squishy plastic fire trucks (natch).
Oh yeah sure. Occasionally a Star Wars guy will show up in the tub for a visit, but he is usually ousted in favor of stuff that still cared what was happening in “Lost” or “Friday Night Lights.”
Last night, I threw the boys in the tub for their nightly soak. Luca asked for me to dump the toys into the bath, which I obliged to give me time to look at Facebook posts for 5 minutes until they began fighting.
I heard a commotion a little earlier than usual.
“Dad! Dad! Gross!
I looked at the calendar and thought it had been a while since one of them crapped in the tub, so strolled into the bathroom, slotted spoon in hand.
But it wasn’t poop, it was something far worse.
Apparently, 5 years of dampness had taken their toll on the bath toys. The insides of each had become caked with mold. Black, disgusting mold. Which was now flaking off into our tub.
I tried scooping the mold out of the tub, but the little black flakes were elusive. Instead, I scooped up the offending tub toys and immediately threw them into the garbage.
Instead of thanking me profusely for saving their lives, the boys began crying. “Don’t throw away our sharks, dada! We love them!”
“But they are killing you. Literally. Look at these black flakes. No, don’t eat them!”
To calm the boys, I told them I was merely going to wash the tub toys and they’d be fine tomorrow. While I was burying them in the garbage can.
I hoped against hope they’d forget about the toys by their next bath time. Which, by my watch, will happen in 30 minutes.