The Toy Basket

She sits and waits. She’s been with you since you came home from the hospital, loved you from the moment she first saw you. She’s tan, with milky brown spots and two pink dots for cheeks. Her eyes are playful. Her nose is your favorite - you chomp down with a voracious hunger, gnashing your teeth against her velvety plastic, soothing your swollen gums. Her tiny squeak makes you laugh. In the beginning, your mom would set her on top of your tummy as you sat in your car seat, her body moving up and down in time to the beat of your breath. You have so many toys, flashy toys that play songs and talk, yet you still make your way back to her - delighted by her cool exterior, small stature. She’s watched you learn to roll over, then crawl, now walk. She’s seen you grow from a newborn to a toddler with strength and tenacity - determined to learn a new skill and hop over the next milestone. Now you tear through the house, feet pounding on the wood floors, grabbing toys from the toy basket and depositing them in other rooms, shoving them into Tupperware bowls, dropping them in your crib, kicking them under dressers.