Recently my wife and I encountered an issue with the shower in our master bathroom which necessitated us using the kids’ bathroom to shower.
It’s an inconvenience, to say the least, as it requires several trips across the house to bring the various toiletries we need to practice proper hygiene. And inevitably a towel or some article of clothing is always forgotten, requiring a trip back across the house once more.
But since becoming a shower vagabond in my own home, I’ve had the opportunity to experience something I wouldn’t have otherwise — an unexpected epiphany that’s given me a new perspective.
The kids’ shower is not like my shower at all. Their shower is a tub/shower combo, and instead of containing such things as adult shampoos, conditioners, and razors, the kids’ shower contains fruity scented and tear-free soaps, big-wheeled monster trucks, and plastic boats.
Normally, the kids’ toys scattered throughout the house is a point of constant irritation. “Clean up this mess” and “clean up that mess” is a common pronouncement heard echoing throughout our house multiple times a day. Strangely though, I felt no such annoyance when I beheld the myriad of toys in the tub.
Why is this? Two reasons come to mind.
One is simply because I want to encourage my kids to feed their imaginations, and their bathtub is their own private oceanic playground where scuba divers with action grips fight giant squids, giant squids fight ferocious sharks, and all of them fight the mighty Mokele-mbembe.
The other reason I don’t mind the clutter of toys in their tub is more therapeutic.
You see, something special happens when a parent finds themselves alone behind a locked bathroom door. That space is a quiet, secluded oasis for much needed introspection, where clarity of thought can be attained for any mom or dad who can spare a few minutes to take advantage of such a remarkable refuge. But you would think a mess of bath toys would be a distraction and a source of visual chaos; and I would have thought the same thing, too, till I found myself standing there one evening gazing at their kaleidoscope of colorful toys.
In that brief moment of time, in the tranquility of that hallowed but humble room, those toys told a tale. Not the typical tale of untidy kids who don’t clean up after themselves, but a tale of greater meaning, a tale of greater purpose, and a tale of a frighteningly inevitable conclusion to life that I dread.
Continue reading HERE.
There’s an unwritten rule that says the literary world possesses certain books all authors must love and laud (even if secretly, they’ve never read them).
Just like a painter who doesn’t like Picasso or Monet, or a classical musician who doesn’t like Bach or Mozart, if an author doesn’t like a book that’s been deemed a classic, then he must be unrefined, or worse . . . uncivilized.
In my case I’d been wanting to read a particular book for a few years, not just because it was a book that I was interested in, but also because I heard other readers rave about this literary work, and it was oftentimes referenced by other authors in their books, articles, and essays, especially as it related to the current times we live in.
So, a few years ago I finally purchased the book, moved it from my to-read list to my currently reading list, sat down in a comfy chair, and prepared to embark on the incredible journey this book was sure to take me on — an adventure that many had traversed before me.
But there was only one problem.
Finish reading HERE.