Toy Explosion





Toys


From the featured blog, Mamma Talk

 
“This is for the baby!” My mom squeaked.
 
 I was newly pregnant with my first baby. And my mom had been shopping. Naturally.
 
That lamb must have been frisky because she quickly coupled off with a stuffed bear that I received at my baby shower. Soon, we were the proud parents of a stuffed pig, a Raggedy Ann doll and a quirky Mr. Potato head. Something must have been in that water because before we knew it, triplet Winnie the Pooh bears were added to our brood.  The toy stork continued her visits. Soon we were joined by a litter of Legos, an array of blocks and a zoo of plastic animals. Our nest was filled to the brim, before baby’s first birthday.
 
Today, just a few years later, the toy invasion has accelerated. And, yes, we have acclimated. We have accepted it as part of parenthood, a sign that our hands and nest are full. Happily full. And, sometimes, they’re-coming-after-me-with-a-big-net full.
 
These days, we always look before we step, swipe before we sit and give a wide berth as we turn corners. We understand that midnight journeys to the bathroom are treacherous to toes. Runs to the phone are murder on shins. And, of course, quick showers are followed only after careful evacuation of Ducky, Nemo and crew.
 
Luckily, we have found other similarly afflicted families to befriend. We enjoy dinners together in each other’s toy infested homes, swapping tales about toy inflicted injuries…showing off Thomas the train scars and scoot toy bruises. We attend kids’ birthday parties and we gift each other with …well, more toys. We share advice on where to buy more toys…..which toys are easily broken….which are toxic…which are educational…which are not. As such, we support each other in a toy co-dependent kinda way. Is this weird?
 
Hubby and I have come to terms with these toys that once plagued us.
 
We now embrace the Mattel Madness.
 
We accept the Leapfrog Loopiness.
 
We encourage the Playskool Pandemonium.
 
After all, as is commonly said by blue haired little old ladies everywhere, those sticky, little fingerprints travel up the wall and then out the door…
Anyone know if they take those toys with ‘em?
                                                                                                                                            
Well, Ok Winnie can stay, but that Mr. Potato Head is getting the boot as soon as he turns 18.