well after nobody fits into the bathtub

There's something special about bath time. It seems to show up often in children's literature, and even with the importance of keeping an eye on small children when they're in the bath, the quiet that fills a house when a child is occupied in the bath can be music to a parent's ears.

Why do certain items float in water, while others sink? What makes a foam toy stick to the wall of the shower? The opportunities for investigation, for the development of scientific thought, are endless. But that doesn't really concern me here.

What interests me here is a different sort of attachment. Why is it that months after the last of our kids has moved from the plastic bathtub to the shower the plastic box of bath toys still occupies a respected, and not too small, corner of our bathroom? Do I still expect someone to say "today I want to sit in the bathtub"? They've grown such that there's hardly enough room to sit, let alone fill the tub with water and add toys. And yet I hold on to that box with its assortment of plastic animals, floating balls, bottles and bottle covers accumulated over hours and years of bathing.