I'm floating in a sea of dirty socks and underwear, surrounded by waves of tank tops with ketchup stains and mud encrusted jean shorts. My vessel is in danger of capsizing under the weight of the dark load, and I sincerely hope the permanent press is a mirage on the horizon. The baby laundry alone is causing me to lose my mind, yet the depth of this sea is unknown. It appears infinite to this captain.
To the south I've spotted a tropical storm of toy trucks and matchbox cars, with a whirlpool of blankets and pillows. A fleet of life boat books are scattered haphazardly across the rough waters, skippered by able seaman Buzz Lightyear, first mate Elmo, and a crew of Little People. They leave plastic tools- screws, screwdrivers, and hammers- in their wake, while a school of three inch dinosaurs frantically paddles from their path to safety.
To the north, a hurricane of baby paraphernalia dominates the sea. Rattles rip at the bow, plastic keys tear at crocheted blanket sails, and my ship is violently pelted with binky-sized hail. Swing and bouncy seat and jumperoo of epic proportion wreak havoc on my vessel, and I fear for my life. Or my sanity.
What shall I do?
The crew is too big.
The home port is too small.
Our excessive cargo is all above board.
Perhaps I should abandon ship?
No, before the moon rises this dark night, and with all cooperative hands on deck (Aye Aye, Captain!), this ship will get the scrubbing of the century. From port to starboard, from sail to anchor, she'll be gleaming. Even the poopdeck.
I see playful breezes and calm, peaceful waters in my future. My ship anchored in a tropical oasis...with endless sandy beaches...and sea shells...and the smell of salty air...and the sound of waves lapping on the shore...and palm trees...with coconuts...and a hammock...with no one in sight...and a drink with a little umbrella...
I know I'm crazy, but I'm gonna live in this mirage for a little while.