It was another whirlwind Tuesday morning in the Wilson household. Mary, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, balanced a lukewarm cup of coffee on her knee as she surveyed the chaos. Oliver, her 14-month-old, was deep in his usual routine: pulling toys out of bins, scattering books across the floor, and occasionally toddling over to show her his latest discovery before discarding it in favor of something shinier, or noisier.
By midmorning, the apartment looked like a tornado had touched down. A plush panda, a gift from Oliver’s grandparents and almost as tall as him, lay face-down in the hallway. Plastic blocks and toy cars were stacked precariously on the couch, and Oliver’s toy xylophone was half-buried under a pile of stuffed animals.
It was the third day of Christmas, the day after Boxing Day, and Oliver had been trying out a batch of new and exciting toys.
As Mary tried to tidy up around Oliver’s determined mess-making, she groaned softly. “If only these toys could clean themselves up,” she muttered under her breath. “Just once, I’d love to sit down at the end of the day without stepping on a block or tripping over a bunny.”
Unbeknownst to Mary, her words hung in the air, carried by some unseen magic that lingered in the simple wishes of exhausted parents everywhere.
That night, after Oliver had finally fallen asleep in his crib, Mary trudged back to the living room. She stared at the disaster zone, debating whether she had the energy to tidy up before her husband got home or if she should just collapse on the couch. With a sigh, she started gathering blocks into the toy bin.
Then, something extraordinary happened.
The xylophone, as if nudged by an invisible hand, slid out from under the stuffed animals, played the tinny notes of Oliver’s favorite melody, Frère Jacques, and floated into the bin. Mary froze, blinking. “Am I that tired?” she muttered.
But it wasn’t her imagination. The blocks she’d been stacking began to hop, one by one, into the bin. The plush panda rolled itself over, gave a lazy bounce, and, making a soft, playful chirping sound, landed neatly among the other stuffed animals. Books—some designed to be indestructible and others chewed at the corners from Oliver’s teething days—flipped closed and floated gently to their shelves, spines aligning perfectly in alphabetical order.
Other musical toys chimed, beeped, tinkled, jingled, or whirred as they made their way to the toy box, some playing familiar refrains of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” the “Alphabet Song,” or a rhythmic “A, B, C, D, E, F, G.”
Mary gaped as the toys worked together, rearranging themselves into their proper places. Within minutes, the living room was spotless. The toy bin sat perfectly organized, the books lined up neatly, and not a single stuffed animal was out of place.
She slumped onto the couch, her coffee cup still clutched in one hand. “Well,” she said aloud, “this is… umm, convenient.”
Her husband Curt arrived home late after some overtime and remarked happily, “Wow, did a magical cleanup fairy finally hear your prayers?”
Mary didn’t know how to respond—he might think she had gone bonkers.
The next morning, Curt had left for work and Mary was curious to see if it had all been a dream. But when Oliver woke up and began his usual routine of joyful destruction, she noticed something different.
The blocks he pulled out seemed to hop back to the bin when he wasn’t looking. The books he discarded floated back to the shelf before he could grab another. The stuffed panda even waited until Oliver was distracted with his toy truck before hopping out of the hallway and back into the bin.
At first, Oliver didn’t seem to notice. But as the day wore on, his tiny brow furrowed in confusion. He’d turn to retrieve a toy he’d left behind, only to find it gone.
Mary tried to suppress her laughter. “Looks like the toys have learned some tidy tricks, buddy.”
By bedtime, Oliver had adapted. He giggled as his xylophone slid away from him and clapped when his stackable cups returned themselves to the shelf.
Mary, for her part, felt like she really had stumbled into a fairy tale. That night, as she tucked Oliver in, she whispered, “Thank you, toys, for giving this tired mama a break.”
From then on, the toys continued their magical cleanup routine. Mary never knew what had caused it—a passing wish, some guardian spirit of weary parents, or simply a bit of holiday magic.
But she didn’t question it. Instead, she leaned into the wonder and made the most of her newfound evenings of peace—until January 5th, the last day of Christmas.
That day, regrettably, the toys stopped moving on their own.
This story previously appeared on the author’s Facebook page, Robin Kers.
Edited by Marie Ginga
A 75-year-old retiree, I spent my career crafting technical documents on labor relations and health and safety for a number of Canadian federal government departments and trade unions. Though I once dreamed of writing the great Canadian novel, I now embrace the art of flash fiction and short stories, enjoying this creative outlet in my later years on our hobby farm in southeastern Ontario.