A Vacancy at the Wombat Hotel
For at least the past year, and possibly longer, my two children have been constructing what I can only describe as a comic soap opera of literally epic proportions.
It began with what was to most casual observers a sort of annoying pretend game of which the most obvious feature was a slightly cloying use of baby voices. As a matter of fact, I used to need to call frequent intermissions on rainy days when there were no friends over to serve as a distraction, since they could go on in character for hours at a time.
But gradually, the plot has evolved and become more complex, the cast of characters has expanded, and now I find myself eagerly awaiting the next episode.
My son, Ned, gives credit to his sister, Audrey, for the story’s concept, which began with a character named Baby Bon who, wandering alone in a forest, encounters a friendly wombat named Mr. Wombie. Taking pity on the poor, lost babe, Mr. Wombie helps Bon find shelter at the Wombat Hotel, a vast 4,000-room complex inhabited entirely by eccentric male wombats and clever female babies — except for one “crotchety old babysitter” named Strict.
Strict, however, is not the hotel’s authority figure. Apparently, she exists in the story mainly to provide the plot with a villain, and perhaps also to satisfy any concerns that either the storytellers or the eavesdropping audience might have about innocent human children being left unsupervised with wild animals. The real authority comes in the form of a Parliament of Wombats, which tends to act with remarkable unanimity, down to wearing identical silk sashes and baseball hats embroidered with silly slogans, such as “I Am Fun!” The Parliament is headed by Prince Wombat, who I believe serves for life, as well as a queen of the babies, who is periodically replaced as the reigning queen becomes too old (age 5) to serve. Currently occupying this revered office is Queen Pudgie IX.
The idea of somehow recording this developing story has, of course, occurred to their pop and me, but it’s difficult to know how to do this without interfering with their play. Even the occasional questions we interject or the gut-busting laughter the story sometimes provokes threatens the project’s spontaneity. A video camera or even surreptitious note-taking would put them too much on the spot, and, unfortunately, I lack the tape-recorder-like memory to take in and spew out, intact, the dialogue and stage directions I am privileged to overhear.
But even more than the loss of this body of work - which would be a great shame - I am coming to dread the end of the story. Although I accept that such a game can’t go on forever any more than childhood can, I am already feeling sad about the eventual ending because of the likelihood that one of the children will abandon the partnership before the other is ready.
Borrowing trouble, as I listen to each episode unfold over after-school snacks or in the back seat of the van, I am increasingly haunted by the ghosts of my older-children-yet-to-come. I picture one child eagerly leaning toward the other, tossing out a line to cue the scene. I imagine the eagerness and joy of that child, anticipating for the umpty-umpth time the challenge of this improvisation, wondering what twists the sibling/co-creator will throw, and being answered instead with a weary eye-rolling and an, “Oh, I’m too old for baby games.”
This imaginary scene makes me mourn not just for the child who is temporarily left behind, but also for the child who, moving on to the next stage, abandons childish pursuits, and maybe even forgets the happiness they once brought.
In my own childhood, I shared with some of my siblings an on-going game called “Summer Camp,” which, if not quite as complex and enduring as Wombat Hotel, was similar in nature. I can’t remember exactly how the game finally ended; what I do remember is a conversation I had not long ago with my brother, Chris, in which he admitted to having no recollection whatsoever of the hours and days we must have spent playing Camp. He doesn’t doubt that we did play such a game, but the demanding details of adult life have pushed this part of our childhood beyond the reach of his recall.
Upon hearing this, I’m sorry for him for being deprived of the memory, and I’m sorry for myself for being denied the pleasure of sharing it with him. And even more, I find myself wondering whether if we could all reach back to this time in our childhood when we collaborated so successfully and so creatively on a project, whether we’d feel better prepared to confront together the shared challenges of life as adult siblings.