Morgan Treasure of Toys

Tips and Tools for Connecting With Children
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-4176-0
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 122 Seiten

The Treasure of Toys is about the power of play, the gift of games, and the importance of connection. In it, Mary Morgan, a family play therapist for over 40 years, draws on her experience helping children develop, learn, heal, and grow. Featuring examples from her own personal past and stories of children she has worked with, Mary offers tools, tips, and advice for connecting with little ones in our lives. This is a book for parents, therapists, or anyone who wants to learn more about children-how they develop and how to best help them as they grow. Inside are ideas for games to play with your family, suggestions on ways to ease through tough times, and insights you can use to become better at play. Because no matter how old you are, or where you're at in life, play is something we all need.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Morgan, Mary

Leseproben

Children Remember

It was three years after I graduated from the University of Nebraska with my degree in human development and family rehabilitation. I fell in love, moved, and married a beautiful man. We had been living in apartments and brownstones for two years and just bought our first house.

It was a townhouse in Minneapolis. To us at the time, it was huge. Three stories, a yard, flowerbeds, a garage, and a big kitchen made us feel like we had all the space in the world. (Enough for a proper dining room table!) And, more importantly, plenty of room to raise the children my husband and I planned to have.

We were moving in. You know how it is. Feelings of excitement mingled with nostalgia as you remove your past from an endless stream of boxes and decide how it fits into your future. It’s a powerful time of reflection, taking stock, and hoping.

I remember thinking a lot about my work. I loved my job. Working as a family counselor, focusing on adolescents and young adults struggling with addiction and substance abuse, made me feel I was fighting the good fight. There was something about this work, helping those who were genuinely in need, which just felt so right to me.

But I never knew why.

“Why is working with young adults so meaningful to me? What in my past drew me to this sort of work?,” I thought as I was trudging down the steps carrying the first box into our new garage. My husband, Tom, was upstairs unpacking our bedroom. He was whistling, the melody echoing off the empty walls and halls we were working to fill.

I had just walked down the stairs from the front door to the garage. The box I was carrying was overfull and awkward. Between my right arm, knee, and the wall I was able to balance the box as I unlocked the deadbolt. “Success,” I thought as I opened the door.

Two things became very apparent. The first was the darkness. The garage doors had no windows or panes of glass. The second was the smell. Fresh gasoline. I always hated the way gas stung my nostrils.

With the box wedged between the wall with the right side of my body, my left foot was free to nudge open door. “Hmmm…heavier than I thought it’d be,” I said to myself. “I should open the garage, air it, out and get some light in here.”

Into the dark, smelly garage I stepped. Box in hands, guided by the sliver of light, I was sure I’d be able to find button to open the garage and use one of the cardboard corners poke it.

And then it happened.

The door swung shut.

And I was alone.

And it was pitch black.

Gasoline assaulted my sense of smell.

And I began to scream.

“AAAHHH! AAAHHHH! AHHHHH!”

I dropped the box. Crashing to the floor, it split and spilled. Immediately I turned around and started pounding on the door. Frantically searching, I found the knob. Still pounding with my left hand and yelling as loud as I could, I twisted the handle.

Nothing.

It didn’t budge. In the excitement of moving, with all the hopes and dreams of what this new chapter in my life could be, I forget to unlock the handle.

I started to sob. Uncontrollably. Tears poured down my cheeks as I sunk to my knees.

I was trapped.

Then, an incredibly vivid scene flashed before me…

I was little girl. I was alone. I was scared. It was very dark. My hands were tied behind my back to a big machine. All I could smell was gasoline. I was wet. I couldn’t breathe.

Sound carries in an empty house.

Tom was there within a minute. He found me curled up and crying

Through tightly shut, watery eyes I remember seeing light. Evidently the light switch for the garage was inside. I heard Tom’s voice. Laced with equal parts confusion and concern he said, “Mary, what’s wrong?! What happened?!”

The gentle caring of his touch brought me back to the here and now. He helped me to me feet.

“I…I…I don’t know,” I stammered drying my eyes with my forearm. “I was carrying a box down to the garage. The door accidentally shut behind me and I….I lost it.”

Tom wrapped his arms around me and kissed me on the forehead. He whispered, “It’s ok. It’s alright. You’re safe.” He let his arms fall and squeezed my hand. “Let’s get you inside.”

Slowly and cautiously I made my way up the stairs. Each foot lingered. I didn’t say a word but I was thinking. “Oh my god. Those feelings. That terror. The smell. It had to be…”

As soon as I was upstairs, I picked up the phone and dialed. A few short rings later, I heard the lilt of my mom’s voice, “Hello?”

I took a deep breathe. “Mom…I remember.”

Silence.

After a pause which felt like eternity, I heard words I’ll never forget.

“They told me you wouldn’t.”

***

When I was four years old, I was abducted by a neighbor.

I grew up in Lincoln, Nebraska in the 1960s. I was the second youngest of four and the only girl. My mom was a stay-at-home mom and my dad was a police officer. Ours was a gray house in a suburb full of slab houses.

There were a lot of kids in my neighborhood. Jamie was my age. She lived three doors down to the right. The twins, Kit and Kelly, lived four doors down on the left. They were the first set of twins I’d ever met. And even though they were fraternal, they seemed so similar to me. I remember thinking, “Wow, it’s like the Kit is the boy version of Kelly!”

But my favorite house of all was the Blankenship’s. In a subdivision full boring slab houses all looking the same, either brown, gray, or brownish-gray, the Blankenship house was pink. It wasn’t just the color of the house I loved, it was also the laughter. Kids were always running around and playing at the Blankenship’s.

That’s where I was headed when I got kidnapped.

I remember being excited. It was first summer I was allowed to explore the neighborhood by myself. Before, I always had to have one of my older brothers with me when I went to play with my friends. As you can imagine, neither of my brothers were very thrilled by this arrangement.

The rule of the house was that in order to be allowed to go play on your own with your friends - you had to be potty-trained. In accordance with this milestone, I was given a special prize to accompany my new degree of freedom, a hat.

Hats were my thing as a child. I collected them. There was a blue cowboy hat, a pioneer flower hat, a many-colored knit hat, and even a fluffy pink kitty hat. Each time I put one on it made me feel like a different person.

I remember first day of summer and the look on my dad’s face. He was in uniform, home after a long shift at work. As the new guy he had to pay his dues. This meant he worked the night beat.

My siblings and I would wake up and excited to run around and spend our day at play. My dad would be getting home at about the same time and be ready to wind down and get some sleep. Breakfast was one of the two times our whole family crossed paths each day.

After he finished sopping up the yolk with his toast, my father leaned back. “Mary,” he said, “I’m very proud of you. You earned your freedom and I have something for you. Now take your plate to the kitchen, give your mom a hug, and then come back for your present.”

I did as I was told.

I came back to see my father was holding a hat. As he put it on my head he said, “Mary, this is your explorer’s hat. It will keep you safe. I’m a cop. I know crime. It’s my job. And this hat will protect you. Now remember, have fun with your friends and listen to you mother. I’ll see you tonight for dinner.”

That whole first day I ran around feeling nearly invincible. My new hat gave me the confidence I needed to climb all the big trees in the neighborhood. It gave me the courage to explore.

And so the first half of summer went. The days were hot and long and wonderful. Every morning before running out the front door to catch up with Jamie or Kelly or Kit, mom would say, “Now, Mary remember. Come back for lunch. You’re not allowed to go any further than the Blankenship’s.”

“I know!” I’d shout with one foot out the door.

You see, not only was the Blankenship house colorful and fun, it was also the boundary of my freedom. It was six houses down from ours and across the street. Which, when you’re four, feels like light years away.

Now, however, I realize the truth. Six houses down and across the street made it easy for my mom to keep an eye on me. It was Nebraska. It was flat. And in our neighborhood of slab houses, each identical to the next, the Blankenship house couldn’t have been more than 500 feet away.

But I was four. I didn’t count feet. I counted driveways. I knew the fun pink house where all the kids played was six driveways to the right and on the other side of the street. I also knew the twins lived on the way. They had just had their birthday party and...