When fond memories are still nightmares

When our first little dear was born, I prepared for life to change. I had considered late night feedings, diaper changes and public humiliation.

What I didn't know was that the house itself would change also. I never anticipated moving Grandma's antique rocker into a corner to make room for a baby swing. Nor did I realize that there would be no room for the coffee table, corner hutch or sofa because one needed room for the exersaucer, play gym and ever-loving spring pony.

Gone was the room's theme, the decorative touch and I could just forget feng shui.

And it didn't end with the first one. No sir. As his toys changed and he graduated from Batman to basketballs, his brothers picked up his discarded items and expanded on his collections.

To make room for stuff, I pulled the magazines out of racks and used the space to house Legos. I stacked milk crates in the living room for toy tractors, Ninja Turtles and space-consuming waffle blocks.

I emptied out the bottom cabinet in the office, the stove drawer in the kitchen, and the towel basket in the bathroom, and filled them up with whatever kept the masses entertained.

Just when I thought we had achieved our maximum toy quota, here came the birthdays, Christmas and visits from toy-toting relatives. The floors were covered, shelves were stacked and we looked like we'd lost our marbles.

By the time our youngest embarked upon toddlerhood, Little Charlie had enough toys to rival Richie Rich. But that wasn't enough. While he loved the plastic tool collection and the complete line of Batman memorabilia, his interest went the way of army men.

So, when I noticed that he wasn't play- ing with the dinosaurs so much as scattering them about to make room for his cannons and tanks, I loaded up the fossils and hauled them up to the attic.

I also packed up building blocks, earthmovers and a plethora of X-Men paraphernalia.

While a smarter woman would have bid them farewell, I couldn't help hoping there'd come a day when I could sort the toys with ease, donate the bulk of them to Goodwill, and keep a toy or two around for little passers-by.

As Little Charlie spread his soldiers and Hummers across his bedroom floor, the bulk of the Clinch toys stayed up in the attic. Yes sir, they remained out of sight and safely tucked into a corner right up until I decided to bring down the Fourth of July decor.

Since going up and down an attic ladder isn't my forte, I enlisted Charlie's help along with his two cohorts, Smith and Ricky.

With dirty faces and sticky hands, they handed down the containers.

"Hey, Mom," Little Charlie inquired once the task was complete, "can I show Smith and Ricky around the attic?"

And like a woman who had lost her mind or at the very least misplaced it, I responded, "Sure, have a good time."

As I decorated the front door with a Fourth of July star, and prepared to hang a banner, I heard the little dears pass by. I was so involved with my seasonal box and the placement of my summer décor, that I never looked their way as they made a second passing.

It wasn't until I was placing baseballs in an antique egg basket and singing out the final stanza of the national anthem that I noticed they were making yet a third trek from the attic to the basement and hauling nothing other than toy storage totes.

I suppose it could have been the look on my face; it could have been my trembling hands or the steam coming out of my ears, but they are nothing if not an intuitive group and though I spoke nary a word, they picked up on the fact that I wasn't happy.

"We'll pick it all back up," said Smith with full hands as he wiped a bead of sweat off his ear with his shoulder.

"We promise," said Ricky with a plea and a basket that was so full that he was straining from the weight of it.

Faster than you can say, "Blow my gasket!" the basement was strewn with toys. Hot Wheels raced the halls once again, as reptiles from the Jurassic period hitched a ride on Batmobiles.

Just today, a friend emailed me and said she had found a long-forgotten toy under the bed. She couldn't help but reminisce with a smile as she longed for a time when laughter filled the room as imaginations ran wild.

"Don't you miss those days?" she asked.

Having just made a trek from the basement and stubbing my toe on an iron replica of a Case backhoe I replied, "Not me, I'm still living the dream."

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.