The lives of inanimate things

As a child I always imagined that when I left the room my toys had lively conversations and busy lives. I imagined them scooting about fighting or loving or adventuring (like in Toy Story but before I'd ever seen it).

And I'm starting to think maybe they do, because recently in our house TOYS ARE EVERYWHERE. Strewn about, always underfoot, our floors have become a battlefield or a ballroom for inanimate things:

The small, developmentally appropriate, carefully selected objects: brightly colored wooden blocks. Rattles. Board books. Stuffed animals.

The not so carefully selected objects that work just as well: mixing bowls, a wooden salad spoon, an empty water bottle, a calculator.

And the things he selects himself: our magazines (shredded), The Wall Street Journal (crumpled), my cell phone (is that why it's suddenly beeping like it's posessed???) and anything and everything that can be climbed upon, pulled on, or sucked on.