There once lived a monster of immense proportions and an unquenchable appetite for children, dinosaurs and fruit (heaps of it) in the shadows of our bathroom. It haunted my four-year-old son so much that he could only use the toilet in the dark, marring his already ill marksmanship.
Bim Bam Boom – that was the monster.
My son rifled off terrifying descriptions of the beast, and even I hesitated at using his bathroom. Better the other one down the hall.
To my son’s relief we moved and Bim Bam Boom didn’t follow. My son checked the bathroom first, and said, “Nope, no Bim Bam Boom.”
His marksmanship improved.
So too his guts.
For in this new house on the coast a giant came to dwell in his very bathroom. “He eats kids,” my son told me.
“Aren’t you scared?” I asked.
“Well, what do you do?”
“Run and hide.”
“Your bedroom. In the bed, under the covers.”
“What if he finds you?”
“Oh,” I said.
“And then yell for help,” he said.
“And what will I do when I come to help?
“Get rid of it.”
I think for a moment that maybe it would be wise to move again.