Toys are toys. They are meant to be played with- that by definition is what a toy is for, right?
They can teach kids shit, they can teach kids WHERE to shit, how to count shit- or just to be annoying shits; but played with- yes. They are all meant to have that done to them.
They might get played with a few times and then cast aside to collect dust in favor of the box they came in; they might become a favorite for about a week until some piece of junk is found behind the bed and replaces it as favorite for reasons unbeknownst to you; there is a teensy-tiny possibility they become a favorite for YEARS… y’know, IF you get really lucky in choice and timing– or some might consider that unlucky, depending upon the toy that becomes the object of your child’s affection.
You see, although I have only been a mother for 5 years (which trust me, feels like 25)- I have noticed a trend. A horrible, terrible, no good, very bad trend when it comes to children’s toys.
And no, it isn’t just that the majority of them are horribly obnoxious- but that the ones your child is the most likely to love the most will be on the top of that list of things in life that make you want to tear out your eyelashes on by one- it’s just THAT fucking annoying.
The kind of toy where even HEARING it roll across your floor or hit that first note of the one song it plays over and over and over again makes you want to launch into a psychotic rage and smash the thing like Michael frickin’ Bolton in Office Space.
At first, you may find yourself directing your anger at your kid. I mean- they ARE the one repeatedly punching the buttons for hours upon hours upon hours. You begin to think it’s a plot against you. They KNOW it makes you batshit crazy; that must have become apparent after the five thousandth time you snapped at them to “STOP DOING THAT!”
Perhaps if the snapping didn’t clue them in- the extremely crazed look in your eye did. Either way, you KNOW they know it makes you immediately revert into psycho-mommy-mode. And you don’t understand why they insist on continuing to force you to revert to psych-mommy-mode unless they are plotting to drive you to the nuthouse so they can live with their crazy ass grandma who buys them absolutely everything.
Once you go into enough of these whack-ass rages, you suddenly have the realization that it’s not the kids you should blame at all; I mean, they are just doing what kids are SUPPOSED to do with toys: playing with them. Instead, the blame should be on the bringer of the crazy- the toy itself. It’s the TOYS damn fault. Damn toy! Your child didn’t MacGuyver the toy to sing the ABC song in the most irritating voice known to man. They most certainly didn’t jerry-rig the wheels to go flying forward and slamming into the wall every time they’re pulled back a little. You’d be a total poo-brained moron to think that it’s your wee one’s fault that the toy only has three buttons and six sounds with which to madden you.
No, no- of course not. That would be absolutely absurd to blame the children; those sweet little klingons.
The fault, fellow parents, lies on the TOYS. The toys CAME with those sounds, songs, noises, features and sharp fucking handles that constantly threaten your life via the arch of your foot; it’s THEIR fault!
Now that your anger has been placed on the deserving offender- a whole new world of awesome cursey hatred that is not frowned upon by modern society. Y’know, ’cause who’s gonna alert the authorities for cursing at inanimate objects?
The only issue with this is when your relationship with these toys becomes so strained that you swear you can hear them back-sassing and mocking you; they really are that evil.
Yeah, i’m talking about YOU, art easel- and your stupid little magnets that i’m sick of picking up off of the floor because GOD FORBID one gets dropped in a place the kids can’t reach; and your stupid ass dry erase side that requires dry erase markers- which promptly made marks that are NOT ERASABLE on my white walls– You are just SO damn hilarious.
Keep laughing and i’ll dropkick you in the throat…er…. board. Somewhere. I’ll drop kick you somewhere!
And i’ve got my eye on you next, Leaptop. You won’t get away with that sorry excuse for music for much longer.
There are days where you just need to blame SOMETHING for the amount of infuriating things that take place in (or out) of your house; it’s best to save blaming the kids for the REALLY bad shit.
Sorry toys. Ok, i’m not sorry- but it sounded good. Plus I don’t want you to come to life while i’m sleeping and go all Puppetmaster on my ass; so yeah, sorry.
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