Dear Nirvana Reader,
I am Holly’s toy closet.
I am situated next to the living room in a convenient location under the stairs. My expanse is great. My ceilings are angled. Holly designed me with 5 shelves filled with wicker baskets and enough space to accommodate books standing in a row. She covered my concrete floor with a fluffy play-friendly rug. Because of my handy location I am an obvious catch-all. When the doorbell rings…my door opens and toys get thrown into me at a pace that would rival a major league pitch. That makes sense. It is good to have a place to hide things temporarily.
Every once in awhile my perky hostess takes an afternoon to sort me out. She pulls all the toys out into the entry. Sorts them by shape, color and age suitability. She sends 80% of my contents to who knows elsewhere and then packs me naively back with the wicker baskets and Brother P-touch labels into pristine condition.
This girl. She isn’t just a half-full kind of person. She is a “it really looks like it might be 3/4 full and I am going to sip slowly and enjoy it, but I am sure there is more” kind of person. What a load of optimistic crap.
Let us have a reality check. THREE BOYS. MILLIONS OF TOYS. Three boys whose millions of toys have millions of pieces. Millions of pieces, Oh the joy! Boys. Toys. Pieces. Joy!
So I ask what is the point of the toy sort? Why does she waste her time? She doesn’t know my nature. I live on chaos. Messy is my middle name…Holly’s MESSY Toy closet (I guess Messy is my first name). Whatever. What do I care. I am a mess. I can take a pristine toy sort and turn it into toy hell in less then 15 minutes. Don’t think I can’t. Don’t underestimate me. Let me prove it:
Oh, the sight of me just makes me happy. But what tickles me even more is the horrified gasp and naughty word muttering that happens every time Holly opens the door. Now that is worth my existence. Don’t pity me. I am in a good place.
Holly’s messy toy closet of the devil
P.S. Where are Maisy’s pants?