When I was six years old, we moved out of our rented apartment to a house of our own. There were still five us of then: my parents, me, and my two younger brothers. The youngest, Oning, was still a year old. That was a major adjustment period for everyone in the family, especially us kids. We were used to eating good food, having our friends around, watching TV and doing all other kids stuff. When we moved in to our newly-constructed house, we had a roof and walls but no floor. We had to wear slippers all the time which we were not used to. We had no electricity yet so no TV and refrigerator. We had no running water so we had to obtain drinking water at my grandmother's house a few blocks away and do laundry at the river also a few meters away from the back of our house. Most of what we ate were also vegetables grown on our own yard because we were still recovering from all the construction expenses we had incurred. On top of all that, we were in a new environment and didn't know anyone.
My mother must be some kind of a psychic because she had the social dilemma of us kids all figured out. Granted, kids adjust very quickly to new environment but my then 3-year old brother, who is my mother's favorite child, was even more socially inept that I was. The first day we were all settled in, she displayed all our toys for all the neighborhood kids to play with. I swear, all of the toys filled one very gigantic box. Our front yard was literally like having a garage sale for toys.
Me: Where did all these toys come from?
Mother: They are all yours and your brothers'.
Me: No, they are not. I don't remember having this stuffed turtle, that neon pink kitchen set and the alien-looking doll. I don't remember playing with any of these toys at all.
Mother: That's because you have a crappy memory. That stuffed turtle was from when you were 2 years old which I hid from you because you were so attached to it that you would not let it go even after it smelled like a dead animal and needed washing. The doll was when you were 3 but you didn't play with it because it scared the crap out of you. The kitchen set was also from 3 years ago and after playing with it for 3 days straight, you got fed up with it and left it under the tree outside. You have the attention span of a mentally-retarded person.
Me: My memory is not crappy.
Mother: When you were also 2 years old we got a white puppy and named him Whitey. You loved that dog. He was with us for more than two years then he got hit by a speeding vehicle and died. A year after that incident, you can't remember having the dog anymore. Yes, your memory is crappy.
Apparently, we eventually get tired of our toys and discard them but she just swooped in after our play time, repaired the broken toys and kept all of them in a box stowed somewhere. We thought we lost those toys but she had them all along. And she did this for years.
Of course, with a gazillion toys propped up on our yard, we were the most popular kids in the neighborhood. We did not even have to make an effort to gain new friends. We just sat with our toys outside and kids who lived blocks away would pile in and asked to play with us. Even if we had no electricity or running water, all the kids thought we were filthy rich and gave us special treatment. My mother is a freakin' genius. And a toy packrat.
I still can't remember the dog though. I mean, who the hell forgets a dog named Whitey? But my father says that there really was a dog. Even my brother remembered playing with the dog. Dude, you were two years old. How the hell could you possibly remember that? I swear there's a conspiracy going on here. There are no pictures of the alleged dog. My mother said that it was buried at the back of the apartment we rented but there were no markers or tombstone. She allegedly cried when the said dog died. If it were indeed beloved, then there has got to be some remnant of its existence. The whole family is ganging up on me and my poor memory.
As for our toys, they are now buried in their respective resting places. Some in the yard, some on the roof, some changed ownership without our knowing it and others reduced to dog poop courtesy of another dog of ours that I happen to remember who bit everything that looked juicy including my father's arm, whereupon our neighbors decided that the dog was rabid and proceeded to make a recipe out of it. Unlike the dog Whitey, whose true story the conspirators will probably take to their graves, I still remember the toys very well. And even if they eventually died, its okay because they have served their purpose. Even for a short time, I knew what it was like to be a rich kid.
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