It’s night and Faye is talking to her long line of cars in a giant parade. She’s asking me over and over if I like them. Each toy car.
I say, as gently as I can, “Well, they aren’t my favorite.”
So she sulks.
So I say, “OK, they are my favorite.”
But she senses something about my mood.
“Are you frusterated?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“OK,” she says nonchalantly, letting the question drop.
The next second she’s showing me each car again. There are maybe 60 of them. She wants me to tell to look at them, to praise them, and to tell her the names of each of them.
“Do you want to know my name?” she asks on behalf of a toy school bus.
“Yes.”
“School Bus!”
The next car comes. It is called Black Car.
“Do you want to see me fly?” says the car.
“Yes.”
Faye tosses it across the room. It lands safely on the carpet.
This whole game was adorable the first ten times or so. Now, increasingly depleted, I’m just doing my best to play along. It’s 7:30 on a Friday night. What a glamorous existence we lead. I wouldn’t even believe this scene if I weren’t in it.
“Which car is your favorite?” she asks me again.
“Ice Cream Truck.”
“Nope, it’s Taxi, because Ice Cream Truck is sleeping.”
“Bedtime is soon,” I say, apropos of nothing. Sometimes we have to voice our unconscious, even when it speaks in a shameless non sequitur.
She keeps playing quietly, without response.
Writing is what makes interminable situations like this into something more bearable, more comprehensible.