Miss N, The Baby, is now eight months old, and is quite a curious little critter. We can't crawl yet--but we're almost there. We can army crawl, which is an upgrade from what we called "the Tripod," which involved baby, while lying face-up, arching her back so that she rested on three points (two little legs and head), then scooting the legs inward and tipping her chin down, which would sort of flop her in the direction she wanted to go. From the army crawl, we are trying to stand up. I am thinking it won't be long, folks...
Little Miss N makes REALLY good time in the army crawl. Usually, she hangs out on the living room floor. We have a couple of large toys there for her entertainment, and a legion of small ones. But what really interests this child is the stuff she's not supposed to have.
This includes Miss L's toys, which are supposed to stay in her room, but rarely do. I swear they move when we're not looking. It's like I'm living in Toy Story some days. (This train of thought leads me down an interesting path, like what the stack of naked Princess I-can't-believe-it's-not-a-Barbie-dolls talk abort when our backs our turned...but I digress...) Dollhouse furniture, little tiaras and shoes (to fit the naked Princesses), Hot Wheels cars, loose change (one of Miss L's favorite things to play with)--Miss N wants it all. She wants it now, and she wants it in her mouth. *cue paranoid squawking from Mommy*
She also likes things that shouldn't, EVER, go in anyone's mouth. Little fluffs of cat hair. Scraps of paper from Miss L's art projects. Unexplained particles of...stuff. Is our floor REALLY this dirty? I swear to God we vacuum.
Miss N will army crawl over to the piano, and attempt to get into Miss L's backpack for preschool (which lives under the piano when not on Miss L). She will try to break into the diaper bag. If it's left on the floor, and it doesn't belong there, she's all over it.
Why??? This child has hundreds of dollars worth of attractive, well-made, and perfectly child-safe baby toys. We have things that rattle. We have things that sing. (LOTS of those.) We have brightly colored toys, balls, rings, friendly stuffed animals, we have a carpet of beautiful baby toys. What must the child be thinking, to look at all those toys, then look at a dust bunny that's crept out from underneath the couch and go, "Oh, hey. I should eat that."
I suppose it's human nature to want what we can't have. I SHOULD be grading things, or cooking things, or cleaning things, or something, but instead I dork around on Facebook, which I shouldn't do, because it's meaningless and wastes time. And then I think, why am I dorking around on Facebook when I could be writing something? Like, for real? I WANT to write--at least I think I do...but do I want to screw around more? When did my "real" writing become work, something to put off, to procrastinate about? Is it because it takes effort, because it's less shiny and streamlined than the virtual "places" online where I fritter away my time? Sometimes I feel like my writing is a turd...but when I DO manage to write something, I'm in a great mood all day. No effort, no payoff.
I need to take a cue from Miss N: ignore all the flashy stuff that's designed to suck me in, and put that dust bunny in my mouth. Writing needs to be forbidden fruit...even if it's fuzzy forbidden fruit.
Showing posts with label toys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toys. Show all posts
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Beware of singing toys.
This is an introduction that isn't really an introduction, just a collection of observations.
Adult life is weird. It's equal parts nostalgia, juggling mangoes, toys that sing (that part multiplies exponentially after you reproduce), coffee, ten-cent armchairs, turkey hats, Velveeta cheese, overlong car trips, dark alleys, sunrises, and Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff for the thousandth time. I write poems but I don't know that that means anything. I'm a smart-ass, which may be more important.
I have one surprise daughter, which means I fall into the Toys That Sing Exponent. This is really the best thing ever, though I didn't know it at the time (meaning the "surprise" time, and not necessarily referring to the singing toys, because they're ever-present and sometimes turn themselves on at night, shouting out happy things in the deep dead of 2 a.m. purely to scare the bejesus out of me). Somehow, one wound up in my car trunk, so that when I turn a corner too sharply, it bellows out, "LET'S GET OUR TELESCOPE!!!! EL TELESCOPIO!!!!!" in a shrill voice. The trunk toy happens to be Backpack, from Dora. Backpack reminds me of this little guy I used to work with in my restaurant years, Manny the Dishwasher. He talked like that too, accent and everything, and he always shouted random things in Spanish at odd moments. I'd walk through the kitchen carrying a tray full of ketchup bottles to refill, and he'd scream from the dishwashing station, "UN SACAPUNTAS!!!!" (which, I think, means "pencil sharpener"). That, or he'd sing, which is another reason Backpack reminds me of Manny. The main difference between the two on that score is that Backpack has no off button or volume control (the person who designed this toy was obviously not a parent). Manny, at least, would pipe down if you promised to buy him a beer after work.
But I was talking about being a parent, right? Before I got off on the "Manny" tangent? I should also state that I only had Backpack in my trunk for a short car trip to the grocery store, and then out he came. (It's that lying-to-the-tell-the-truth-poet-thing, sorry. Get used to it. If the cat needs to have two heads for the blog to make better sense, the cat will probably wind up with two heads.) I have two cats, the Larger One Who Rules the Universe, and the Smaller One Who Needs a Crash Helmet. The Smaller One needs a crash helmet because he has a sunny personality and is not bright enough (yet) to run from my daughter, who has succeeded in putting him in a drawer at least two times. Pets in drawers...one more thing they don't warn you about parenthood.
So far, we've covered singing toys, mildly disturbing former co-workers, why I exaggerate and tweak the details sometimes but won't actually lie to you in a global sense, the joys of parenting, and kitties in peril. That may be enough for my first post. We'll see how this goes.
Adult life is weird. It's equal parts nostalgia, juggling mangoes, toys that sing (that part multiplies exponentially after you reproduce), coffee, ten-cent armchairs, turkey hats, Velveeta cheese, overlong car trips, dark alleys, sunrises, and Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff for the thousandth time. I write poems but I don't know that that means anything. I'm a smart-ass, which may be more important.
I have one surprise daughter, which means I fall into the Toys That Sing Exponent. This is really the best thing ever, though I didn't know it at the time (meaning the "surprise" time, and not necessarily referring to the singing toys, because they're ever-present and sometimes turn themselves on at night, shouting out happy things in the deep dead of 2 a.m. purely to scare the bejesus out of me). Somehow, one wound up in my car trunk, so that when I turn a corner too sharply, it bellows out, "LET'S GET OUR TELESCOPE!!!! EL TELESCOPIO!!!!!" in a shrill voice. The trunk toy happens to be Backpack, from Dora. Backpack reminds me of this little guy I used to work with in my restaurant years, Manny the Dishwasher. He talked like that too, accent and everything, and he always shouted random things in Spanish at odd moments. I'd walk through the kitchen carrying a tray full of ketchup bottles to refill, and he'd scream from the dishwashing station, "UN SACAPUNTAS!!!!" (which, I think, means "pencil sharpener"). That, or he'd sing, which is another reason Backpack reminds me of Manny. The main difference between the two on that score is that Backpack has no off button or volume control (the person who designed this toy was obviously not a parent). Manny, at least, would pipe down if you promised to buy him a beer after work.
But I was talking about being a parent, right? Before I got off on the "Manny" tangent? I should also state that I only had Backpack in my trunk for a short car trip to the grocery store, and then out he came. (It's that lying-to-the-tell-the-truth-poet-thing, sorry. Get used to it. If the cat needs to have two heads for the blog to make better sense, the cat will probably wind up with two heads.) I have two cats, the Larger One Who Rules the Universe, and the Smaller One Who Needs a Crash Helmet. The Smaller One needs a crash helmet because he has a sunny personality and is not bright enough (yet) to run from my daughter, who has succeeded in putting him in a drawer at least two times. Pets in drawers...one more thing they don't warn you about parenthood.
So far, we've covered singing toys, mildly disturbing former co-workers, why I exaggerate and tweak the details sometimes but won't actually lie to you in a global sense, the joys of parenting, and kitties in peril. That may be enough for my first post. We'll see how this goes.
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