Toy story

“I’m yook-in’ for some new toys,” T said, with the attic door wide open, bleeding heat into the crawl space that serves as our storage area.
(My husband tells me this is physically impossible, since cold air forms a barrier that heat cannot penetrate.)
“Mom! Help me!” he called, while I made the bed in the next room.
We go through this periodically.
T thinks there’s a box — or two — of toys, dubbed “new,” that he has long ago “lost.”
It’s like a treasure hunt for him, a chore for me, as he directs me to open boxes and bins containing potential booty that he spies from the door’s threshold.
He won’t venture any further inside, leaving that task to me, because he thinks there a badger in there.
OK, it was me that told him that years ago, hoping he’d stay out and stop messing up my organized area.
I know terrorizing your kids is one of the top 5 no-nos as a parent, right up there next to remembering to feed and clothe them periodically.
But the only thing T responds to is his badger phobia. Dinosaurs are his friends, bugs are cute, werewolves are not real.
I think he thinks the attic is an infinite source of toys, like how Jesus’ basket yielded unlimited bread and fish.
How nice it would be if the principle applied to all our material wants.
When I’m in there, I’m under pressure to produce something fantastic and never-before-seen, or at the very least — forgotten.
Look what I found: A wooden mouse-shaped clapper, complete with brown felt ears; a chunky, red-wood, old-fashioned string-pull top, his seldom-used indoor tent with the missing pole.
“Gimme dem all,” T instructs me, holding out his little palm.
His response is always the same — and wonderful: “I’ve been yook-in’ for deese forever!” he’ll say gleefully.
“Ganks, Mom.”
I’ll clean up the mess tomorrow.