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The dump trucks are back. We had a several-month respite from Dump Truck Games as practiced by James and Owen, but the games are back on now. We think maybe Grandma Davis' presence reminded them. The first dump truck was either a birthday or a Christmas present for James when he was about two. He liked it just fine and played with it from time to time, mostly using it as a transport for George and Steven.
Then Owen was born, and then Owen was mobile, and then Owen discovered James' dump truck. That was about when the single dump truck became very important to James. He would load his ever-growing menagerie of friends and toys and prizes into the back of the truck and race it around at high speeds, crashing into walls, chairs, and people willy-nilly. There's something about pushing a wheeled object that's able to be grasped conveniently around your center of gravity which makes you feel like you're running faster than you could otherwise go while upright. James relished this.
And using the dump truck made staying upright easier for Owen the toddler, when he was able to get ahold of the dump truck unattended. Owen even, on a few gloriously mischievous occasions, found the dump truck unattended and still packed full of James' most precious possessions. In Owen's defense, he's never been the type of kid to steal his older brother's stuff and to hide it or run off with it. The pleasure of tormenting James with the theft has always been far more appealing than the actual use or enjoyment of the stolen goods.
An uneasy balance was eventually struck wherein both boys would play with the truck--it was fun to take turns ramming it around--but James would always claim final ownership in disputes, and inevitably Owen would be pushing around some less desirable wheeled toy while he chased after his dump-truck pushing older brother.
It was Grandma and Grandpa Davis who came to Owen's rescue. They bought him his own (identical) dump truck for our 2016 beach trip. Any sun-kissed vacationer who hoped to have a peaceful walk to the seashore amid sounds of surf and far-off seagull cries would have to deal with the two little boys rattling their dump trucks as noisily as possible over sidewalk, boardwalk, asphalt, rocky gravel, and finally into the hot sand of the beach edge. (At this part Owen would always cry because he couldn't push his any further. I would carry him in one arm and his dump truck in the other to the water's edge.)
Those dump trucks bought us a lot of peace, if not quiet, that week. They filled them with wet sand, dry sand, interesting rocks and shells, and, of course, all manner of litter and garbage. When the trucks returned home, slightly sandy, but still in fine shape, it was open season for dump truck races. The best part about racing dump trucks inside the house, as far as I can tell, is the noise. Two little boys can make a spectacular racket when they run them around, and the sounds get even better when you crash into things. Into each other, for example? A hilarious, clang, crunch, and thud. Into a tower of blocks? A volley of wooden pieces onto the hardwood floor. Into a table leg or chair? A great groan of the chair leg scraping several inches out of position across the (expensive) hardwood. Into the sofa? An understated 'thud' of metal against fabric-covered padding. Into a human adult? A gasp of pain and an impatient exhale, followed by a 'watch where you're going' or 'can't you see that I have coffee?' Even a shelf of books makes a great noise, because if the books are stacked messily enough, a whole heap of them will collapse onto the floor upon impact.
For this season the dump trucks were beloved by our boys, but they were not our favorite game.
And we waited them out, and then slowly the Dump Truck Game phase gave way to playing board games or the playground across the street, or LEGOS, or any number of other activities, and we didn't remind them of the dump trucks when they whined at us about having nothing to do. They sat in plain sight but unseen beside their bunkbeds.
But now they're back. Felix, from his perch in the downstairs swing, can only look about in startled confusion at the crashing noises from the next room or the sound of wheels rattling past him. Its no longer safe to set beverages down on end tables. I don't leave my gig bag out on the floor any more.
The dump trucks are back.
And imagine when we have to get a THIRD truck.




As a special bonus note, I am in Syracuse today and typing this up on a public library computer, because I forgot my phone at home. When I realized this (and it was already to late to turn around), I thought that perhaps today would be a good opportunity to take a break from the constant distraction of having an iPhone. That's been okay. (I guess.) But I'm sorry if anyone urgently needs to get ahold of me, because I can't even check my email. I don't remember my password and it's only written down...on my phone.


Imagine when we get a third one.