Death of a Dyson Box

I have been thinking about writing again for awhile, and so I am setting myself up to start from here. Let's just pretend that almost 2 years have not passed and that we are headed in a whole new direction. More on that soon.

Last year, during this time, I was mad at my vacuum. The bristle suction thingy was playing tug of war with me and my long curly red hair, and the hair won. We needed a replacement. I somehow convinced my husband that if he plunked down the 400 bucks or so for the new Dyson, that not only would our house be freshly vacuumed on a daily basis, but he would be investing in the wave of the future. The best technology in Vacuums. What I didn't plan for was the affect it would have on my children.

Now, if you are thinking that they wanted to do the vacuuming, you are wrong. If you think that they are scared of the loud and roaring sounds that said vacuum produced, wrong again. If you own a Dyson, you know that besides being an obnoxious yellow, they come in a sleek black box with detailed instructions in multiple languages. If you are a Troutman kid, the box is always the hit. Any box. Tiny jewelry box, cereal box, refrigerator box, moving box. My kids dig boxes. Maybe they don't have enough toys. Maybe they have great imaginations. Probably both.

Child number three, male, red haired like mama, and also known as "Charles Wallace" by a select few, is kind of macabre. Upon opening the new Vacuum and after the oohs and ahhhs subsided, we carefully placed the black box in the garage near the trash cans to go out the following day. The following day came and went and the black box was nowhere to be found. Not thinking much of it, and assuming the trash collectors had taken the box, we went about our lives eating, drinking, sleeping, vacuuming as normal. Child number three, age 4 at the time, began inquiring about the dead, mummification, embalming methods, etc. While we were slightly alarmed, we realized that Halloween was upon us and perhaps the Spiderman costume was played out. When he asked me to roll him in toilet paper before bed that night, I was skeptical, but I humored him, and lightly "mummified" my son.

The following night when he asked me again to mummify him, I decided to try and figure out what was going on in the noggin. I followed him into his room and everything looked normal. I sat on his bed and talked to him about ancient Egypt, and looked through a book about it. I turned off the light and walked out of the room. A couple of hours later, I went in to check on him and lo and behold, the black vacuum box had reappeared looking like a long sleek coffin, and lying on my sons bunk bed. When I peered inside, I found my little boy, sleeping in a stiff straight position. What is a mom to do? Do I freak out and wake him up and seek counseling for all of us? Do I cast out weird Vacuum box demons, and return the beloved Dyson? Do I wait until morning and sneak into the room and discard the box?

I opted to wait until the "stage" had passed and then quietly remove the cardboard coffin from my son's room. The way I see it, my children want to learn, know, become wise, and experience what they are hearing. When you read about fast sports cars, don't you want to drive one? When I read about a delicious chocolate cake recipe, you can bet that I will be making it. When we learned about the majesty of the Grand Canyon...we had to see it for ourselves. When little boys read about Ancient Egypt, they may see a "mummy box" in your vacuum packaging. I am proud of my little guy for using his resources to experience something new, and although I was mildly disturbed by his obsession with the dead for a few weeks, I came to realize that imagination is the mark of all the greatest authors, inventors, painters, and thinkers. Even the macabre ones.