The Pressing Question of the Day

I have all kind of things I should be posting right now. I have a book to tell you about and an extra one to give away (coming tomorrow), I have a fabulous CD to tell you about and an extra one to give away (coming next week). I have a really interesting guest post from my husband (but I'm not giving him away) and I also have a gorgeous little baby who is four months old today. (She's not going anywhere either.)

Three of my favorite blogging friends have also tagged me in the last month or so with three different (yet all really fun) memes. And I want to do them! I do!

But I can't post any of that stuff right now, because I can't escape this question.

Well, OK. ... Wait. You want a picture of the baby, don't you?

Baby addicts. (Insert eye roll here.) But since you twisted my arm....

This is the face I wake up to every morning.

It's hard to have a bad day after that, I tell ya.

OK. Have you gotten your fix? Are you going to be able to make it until next week, when I do a more complete update?

Good. So here's my issue.

When we moved from our (rather large) house last fall into our (rather cozy) townhouse, one of the things we were most thankful for in our new home was this:

It's a bonus room next to the garage entrance, in our basement, and it's a perfect playroom. This space literally sold me on the development, as most townhouses in our size and price range only had a living room for a communal space. Which would have meant all the toys would have been stacked next to the sofa and I would have gone insane in about 38 minutes, give or take.

But why, since we have this really cool playroom, does my son prefer playing with this:

And this:

And these:

(OK, so that's not my stuff, but the two "super girls" -- who starred in their own post last year -- are from a happy meal a year ago and the skateboard we got from a children's meal at Ruby's Diner in Carlsbad. Quality merchandise, that.)

In fact -- look. Even as I was taking the pictures for this thought-provoking essay, Connor plundered my utensil drawer, and I caught him red-handed.

He'll play with his real toys occasionally. (I also have proof of this, in the form of a 15-car pileup on Route Stairway, which almost cost a 36-year-old woman her life.)

But 95% of the time, he prefers to take our stuff and imagine toys out of them. Those utensils? Lately, they've been musical instruments. The bathroom paraphernalia? Those are his "guys." And the make-up brushes are a family.

(Daddy, Mommy, little boy. But I bet you figured that out, didn't you?)

I guess I should be proud of his creativity. And I am.

Except when I need my favorite tongs for dinner and I find them after a three-minute search under the coffee table and then I get scolded for removing them "because that was the Daddy, Mom!"

Connor is an impish, sweet, magical little boy. (I love four.)

But -- is this normal? Do all kids do this? Or am I the only one having to fight with my son when I want to use my Chapstick (aka the stunt guy who was getting ready to do a huge jump into the sink)?