The other day I mentioned that Sam had recently given his original “castle” to Anabel. It’d had been in his bedroom closet for nearly a year, but he and his playmates still hauled it out on occasion, rummaging for extra props to bolster a game. He was less and less satisfied, tho, with the squat and cheery figures that represented the brave knight, the fire-breathing dragon, the stern king. In fact, the warm smiles and diminutive proportions of these “Little People” gave the lie to the death-defying feats he’d have them face.
So Sam’s pretty much stuck to the newer big boy castle on display in his room. It’s dragon has claws and teeth to be reckoned with, and the knights are so intent on the danger all around them that their visors cannot be pried up to reveal chipper grins. Perfect. Anabel can walk those other guys through the cute castle with its juicy chicken roasting on the spit and its bucket of crown jewels sparkling in unconscious display through the turret windows. That’s for babies...
Once upon a time, however, that fairy tale castle was the centre of Sam’s universe. It’s the only Christmas gift I clearly recall from 2004 — a present from Tracey. How fitting that she should have it back in her house now, sounding its never-to-be-forgotten nine-note accompaniment to the presentation of the king. I’d hum it here for posterity, but it’d come out only as “doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, DOO-DOO!” Captures little of its triumphant measure and sense of pomp and circumstance. Ironically, most of the 1001 times that Sam pressed the flags to sound the horns and light up the torches, no one occupied the throne that was simultaneously flung out on to the balcony for the benefit of the imagined subjects below. Absentis regius.
Sam’s king had more important things to do. Like host birthday parties. Endlessly identical “boeuf-day paahtees.” He’d gather the guests, bringing in Sally and Michael from the treehouse set and the firefighter and paramedic from the fire station set (okay, I called her a paramedic, but Jeremy’s nickname for her, “Nurse Betty” is the one that stuck). Then the King and Queen (Rex and Elizabeth) would haul the little wooden table out on to the grounds for a picnic. Happily, the table is permanently pre-set with meat, fruits, bread and cheeses. Everyone ate with gusto! The aforementioned chicken, as well as the pie cooling on the mantle and the bucket of apples from the stable, furnished additional courses. Then came the chase games, followed by the present: the unveiling of a beautiful horse named Bulls-eye (l’hommage à Toy Story). No matter who the guest of honour was, the party always unfolded in the same way. Sam loved it, time after time. After time.
Some months later, he swapped up the scenario to detail an exciting rescue of a number of rogue animals from the battlements. You never knew what kind of dangerous beast you might encounter on the rooftop. Actually, that’s not quite true. You knew exactly who was up there. It was the usual suspects every single time. Sam didn’t take well to variations from his script. So whenever I heard his hopeful and enthusiastic proposal, “pay sasso…!?”, I knew how things would run for the next hour or so. It was sweet fun. It was also often exhausting, and so for reasons that the un-childed could never understand, all those hours of castle play rank high on the “Things That Make Us Good Parents” List. It’s not about the diaper changing and the sleepless nights: it’s about ignoring the muscle cramps, the tantalizing whistle of the kettle in the kitchen, and the piles of laundry you’re going to have to do late that night and smiling instead through the 14th round of your son’s favourite game.
Much older and wiser, Sam now loves to hear this story of his obsession with that particular toy and his cute invitation to come “pay sasso”. But I realize, writing this, that while his plots are certainly more varied and extended now, his tolerance for a little adlibbing on the part of the supporting players hasn’t changed that much at all. It’s still his narrative and you’d best do what you’re told when you’re handed the blue knight. The curse of an only child. It’s something we’re subtly working on with him. Cuz we’re good parents, and we want Sam’s friends to happily join in his games, whatever version “sasso” takes from here.
So Sam’s pretty much stuck to the newer big boy castle on display in his room. It’s dragon has claws and teeth to be reckoned with, and the knights are so intent on the danger all around them that their visors cannot be pried up to reveal chipper grins. Perfect. Anabel can walk those other guys through the cute castle with its juicy chicken roasting on the spit and its bucket of crown jewels sparkling in unconscious display through the turret windows. That’s for babies...
Once upon a time, however, that fairy tale castle was the centre of Sam’s universe. It’s the only Christmas gift I clearly recall from 2004 — a present from Tracey. How fitting that she should have it back in her house now, sounding its never-to-be-forgotten nine-note accompaniment to the presentation of the king. I’d hum it here for posterity, but it’d come out only as “doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, DOO-DOO!” Captures little of its triumphant measure and sense of pomp and circumstance. Ironically, most of the 1001 times that Sam pressed the flags to sound the horns and light up the torches, no one occupied the throne that was simultaneously flung out on to the balcony for the benefit of the imagined subjects below. Absentis regius.
Sam’s king had more important things to do. Like host birthday parties. Endlessly identical “boeuf-day paahtees.” He’d gather the guests, bringing in Sally and Michael from the treehouse set and the firefighter and paramedic from the fire station set (okay, I called her a paramedic, but Jeremy’s nickname for her, “Nurse Betty” is the one that stuck). Then the King and Queen (Rex and Elizabeth) would haul the little wooden table out on to the grounds for a picnic. Happily, the table is permanently pre-set with meat, fruits, bread and cheeses. Everyone ate with gusto! The aforementioned chicken, as well as the pie cooling on the mantle and the bucket of apples from the stable, furnished additional courses. Then came the chase games, followed by the present: the unveiling of a beautiful horse named Bulls-eye (l’hommage à Toy Story). No matter who the guest of honour was, the party always unfolded in the same way. Sam loved it, time after time. After time.
Some months later, he swapped up the scenario to detail an exciting rescue of a number of rogue animals from the battlements. You never knew what kind of dangerous beast you might encounter on the rooftop. Actually, that’s not quite true. You knew exactly who was up there. It was the usual suspects every single time. Sam didn’t take well to variations from his script. So whenever I heard his hopeful and enthusiastic proposal, “pay sasso…!?”, I knew how things would run for the next hour or so. It was sweet fun. It was also often exhausting, and so for reasons that the un-childed could never understand, all those hours of castle play rank high on the “Things That Make Us Good Parents” List. It’s not about the diaper changing and the sleepless nights: it’s about ignoring the muscle cramps, the tantalizing whistle of the kettle in the kitchen, and the piles of laundry you’re going to have to do late that night and smiling instead through the 14th round of your son’s favourite game.
Much older and wiser, Sam now loves to hear this story of his obsession with that particular toy and his cute invitation to come “pay sasso”. But I realize, writing this, that while his plots are certainly more varied and extended now, his tolerance for a little adlibbing on the part of the supporting players hasn’t changed that much at all. It’s still his narrative and you’d best do what you’re told when you’re handed the blue knight. The curse of an only child. It’s something we’re subtly working on with him. Cuz we’re good parents, and we want Sam’s friends to happily join in his games, whatever version “sasso” takes from here.
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