The holidays were very quiet around these parts. I was able to rouse myself from the couch sickbed now and then to grudgingly remove new toys from their stunningly secure packages and even put a few together. On that subject: I remain stymied as to why today’s toy manufacturers insist upon1,252 twist ties and an enormous amount of unnecessary tape. In my day, I seem to remember the toys kind of just rattling around in their boxes, all those Cabbage Patch Kids and GI Joes and Rainbow Brites just banging back and forth amiably until released. Back then, there was probably even a picture on the side of the box showing how kids could just open one end and pour all the small choking hazards directly into their mouths YUM YUM YOU CHILDREN OF THE EIGHTIES STAND NOT A CHANCE

It was during one of these Christmastime toy dismantlings that I stabbed myself in the thumb with a particularly lethal plastic part. I now have a welt that is totally going to require a better story should it eventually end up as a scar. Something more along the lines of That Time I Got Lost In The Jungle And Had To Survive By My Wits and My Thumb, as opposed to OW-Polly-Pocket-roller-coasters-hurt.

Speaking of Polly Pocket roller coasters that hurt! Why do the instructions tell me to pre-assemble the trillion little coaster tracks if I only have to take them apart to fit them into the main, er, coaster/concert stage/t-shirt shop/WHY DIDN’T I BUY NICE BORING ORGANIC WOODEN TOYS apparatus?

I’m imagining the fine folks in charge of writing the instructions had a conversation much like this:

Instruction Folk #1: Now let’s see. We have plenty of confusing drawings. But what about words? What can we write here?

Instruction Folk #2: Words? Oh, right–you’re new here. Quick rule of thumb: Never use words. Only vague drawings that 37% resemble the actual toy. I mean, sure, you can throw in some arcane German or a little Swahili now and then, but you NEVER use English for toys sold in America.

Instruction Folk #1: Aha. Got it. What about this page? I have drawings of how the many tracks should pair, but honestly, when I tried assembling the toy myself, it really is impossible to put it together with the coupled tracks.

Instruction Folk #2: Even better! You’re a natural at this! You’ve stumbled upon what we around here call the Extra Step of Dratted Nonsense. We try to include at least one in every instruction manual. [slaps Folk #1 on back] Someone is going to do well at bonus time, I can tell.

Curse you, Polly Pocket (and Friends!). May you (and Friends!) somehow fall into the fireplace soon.

So! Board games! Given my vast expertise in this area, it seems only right to share my ratings of some of the biggest and most popular games out there.

CANDY LAND

Mini-description: Timeless, sugary-themed favorite of every parent out there except for all of them

Invented by: A far-thinking dentist with dreams of early retirement

Best played: By stacking the deck; look, it’s that Princess Frostine again! WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT.

Scream factor, judged on scale of 1-10, where 1 is “I could play this all day” and 10 is “Imma sell my kid”: 5

TROUBLE

Mini-description: Mindless here-to-there action; includes the Pop-O-Matic die, aka the kid version of crack rock

Invented by: Someone who really, really liked the number 1 and really, really hated the number 6

Best played: With one eye on “Glee”; god, that effin’ Rachel

Scream factor: 7 (with wine, 6.85)

SCRABBLE JUNIOR

Mini-description: Ultra-dumbed-down version of the original; might actually discourage American children’s early reading skills

Invented by: Those plotting Chinese, obviously

Best played: By a parent who is not you

Scream factor: 9

CONNECT 4

Mini-description: Oddly compelling four-in-a-row strategy romp that encourages horizontal, vertical, and diagonal visualization and fierce parent-child competition

Invented by: Addictive Personalities Anonymous

Best played: Early in the day, when you are best cognitively equipped to beat that little bugger

Scream factor: 4 (1, if you win)

WHAC-A-MOLE

Mini-description: Smaller yet precisely-as-annoying version of the arcade game

Invented by: The deaf

Best played: When Daddy has slept in LATE ENOUGH

Scream factor: 9

MOUSE TRAP

Mini-description: Construction-based play centered around the notion that Physics is Crazy Talk

Invented by: A mother who super-hated all other mothers

Best played: In between waterboarding and fingernail removal, for levity

Scream factor: 132

(Please feel free to suggest other games, though I bit off my own ears tonight during the third round of Chutes and Ladders and might not hear you right away.)

Anyway, the summertime fun. Aura discovered a love for all things Lego a few weeks ago, so there has been a lot of this:

And this:

And after I stepped on an errant Lego piece and swore for the 51st time, a brief respite for this:

(That mustache piggy is so cocksure. He needed to be taken down a peg or two. Aura and I took care of him, rest assured. I don’t want to go into detail here, but let’s just say he won’t be coming around Bomb Birdie’s parts any time soon.)

Other that all that, there is very little nothing new. Since there may be a few of you who doubt this (Doubting Population: 0), I’ll prove it by telling you that today we went to Costco and there was not a free sample in sight. I know this because Aura and I looked. A lot. Combed aisles, one might even say, if one were kind of a mouthy jerk.

There was one moment when we thought we saw the gleam of a sample cart at the end of the frozen food cases (“Popsicles!” Aura yelled hopefully. “Something cheesy and fried!” I followed up optimistically.), but it turned out to be, well, another frozen food case. You’d think they could at least make those suckers consistent in size, if they’re going to be too cheap to hand out free samples. It’s almost as if Costco is intent on dashing a thirty-three-four-year-old’s hopes. Child haters. I sense a campaign. Let’s get that going. All those c’s in “Costco,” it’s like a child-hating-campaign acronym waiting to happen.

To make up for the disappointment, or at least mine, we bought one of those memory foam bath mats. Wiser women, women with an inkling of what Having a Life means, would have perhaps filled the gaping hole left by the absence of Hot Pocket samples with a nice sweater, or possibly a bottle of lotion. Not I. But LOOK:

It’s like standing on heaven. Wait. Somehow that sounds bad. Maybe like standing right outside heaven? When you know you’re a shoo-in but still have to wait the traditional five days, or whatever? Anyway, something like that. Your feet sink and smush in and get all huggy feeling. Watch. I’ll make a footprint for you.

Adam just read that over my shoulder and did this little frisson of disgust. He seems to think that this is a post not worth posting. But just look at me clicking Publish and racing upstairs to go stand on my new bath mat. I won’t even give him a single chance to try it out himself. I’ll hide it, leaving him the old, ratty mat, the one with all the pulls and snags and dirt. He’ll be sorry. VERY SORRY. IT’S MEMORY FOAM, FOR GOD’S SAKE.

You should have seen the line of other guys just dying to marry me.

By night, they are so much more. Actually, not all that much more, but a little bit more. Maybe not a bit more, either. More like a smidge. Yes. A SMIDGE. A SMIDGE OF EXCESS AND ILLICIT BEHAVIORS.

It is all overseen by he is who is known only as The Birdfather. His hooded eyes and the vicious lines of his beak cow those who party in his presence.  The Birdfather’s enforcer is always nearby, his baleful expression belying his brute pecking strength. Also, those tattoos on his head are pretty scary. You do not mess with someone with tattoos on his head. Big rule, that one.

As the sun sets on the playroom, some activities remain innocent. Kitties meow, puppies bark, common garden insects chat over frosty drinks

“North American gardens have really come along since you were introduced to control the aphid problem, Ladybug.”

“It’s so nice of you to notice, Snail. A compliment from you means a lot. After all, your classification name Gastropoda is so much better than mine. I hate the number of vowels in Coccinellidae.  It’s all I’s and E’s…god. Enough already, you know?”

Elsewhere, what should be innocent takes on darker intent. Not even a simple shower is safe. Suddenly, all those As Seen on TV ads for emu oil seem a lot less inhumane.

Outside, debauchery takes to the streets. At only five cents, the sheep’s “lemonade” is easy drinking. The buzz is unbelievable. Rumors of grain alcohol abound.

Music is turned louder. Voices are raised. Public urination becomes rampant.

Some try to sober up with a snack. Yet the Treat Center is closed for the evening. Aquatic creatures wearing unnecessary safety gear fall to the ground, dead from hunger, useless gills flapping in the stale, hard-lemonade-scented night air.

Sadly, the evening’s first fatality eludes the others, who stagger sloppily over to the neighborhood clinic, where they proceed to have weighing contests. The giraffe, who is known to regularly prattle on about the benefits of vegetarianism, shows herself to be a svelte three…somethings.

Emboldened by both the giraffe’s success on the scale and three lemonades, the zebra hops on next. An uncomfortable silence ensues.

“BUT ALL I EAT IS LEAVES!” wails the humiliated African equid. Intent on proving her words to be true, she demonstrates.

The drunken smacking and chewing sounds only force the others farther from her. Overcome by depression, the zebra drags out her secret stash, those foodstuffs that typically get her through the night. Yet on this evening, the buttered corn is too slippery in her inebriated hooves, and the wedges of Brie and lemon cake dull her pain only temporarily. (The pie is pretty effin’ good, though.)

Little does the zebra know that her reputation is actually better off than some others. As the sky begins to lighten with the first hints of dawn, two canines become carried away.*** A voyeuristic crowd forms. Some speed to the scene in carrot cars. Another brings a mailbox. For some reason. Probably not important.

I can’t believe they make these things for kids.

***For the record, that last scene was Adam’s doing. He came into the playroom while I was taking photos. I was all set to conclude with a zebra with an eating disorder, but OH NO. WE HAD TO HAVE THE DOGGY SEX.

Most of these moments reveal themselves when she is playing with her Littlest Pet Shop toys, a line of playthings Hasbro has put on earth to milk every last cent out of hard-working families, one $5.99 tiny plastic seahorse complete with tiny plastic accessory at a time. (It is unclear why a seahorse would need a snorkel mask. Then again, the mystery of the pig’s chef hat also remains unsolved. Hell in a handbasket, people. A HANDBASKET.)

For some reason, whenever Aura plays with her pets lately, there seems to be an inordinately high percentage of…calamities. I’ll be standing at the kitchen counter, prepping veggies for dinner, when a light thump and the searing scream of a toy ambulance will suddenly echo through the house.

“Oh NO, Mommy!” Aura will yell from the playroom. “You are NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS!”

Obligingly, I head to the playroom door, peering hesitantly around the corner to see what pet disaster has now transpired. There Aura will be sitting, shaking her head and sighing heavily, one or another Littlest Pet Shop pet flopped onto its tiny side in front of her.

“It’s Mirabel,” she’ll say, gesturing to the fallen. “She fell off the roof of the dollhouse and broke her hip.” Often, for good measure and to emphasize the severity of this injury, she will poke the prone pet with something sharp (perhaps a toothpick pilfered from our baking cabinet), to which the otherwise inanimate pet will react, usually with something along the deafening lines of “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.”

From there on, a script is followed. Mirabel or whoever the cripple of the day is will be strapped onto an eensy gurney, shoved rather unceremoniously into a minute ambulance, and brought to the Littlest Pet Shop Get Better Center (yours, too, for one kagillion dollars!), where he or she will be prodded and shot up with ambiguous yet consistently cherry-flavored medicine and often pronounced near death. No one has actually expired yet, per se, but I sense this is only because Aura hasn’t spotted the Littlest Pet Shop Funeral Home in the Target toy aisle yet.

It’s all very amusing the first, say, 105 times you witness it, but by time #106, the bloom is off the rose. This month alone, the Get Better Center has treated five broken hips, three unspecified knee injuries, and a host of broken skulls, which are never skull fractures, no matter how many times I suggest that. This strikes me as too bad, for if you are going to be a toy suffering from a near-mortal injury, it might as well be an accurately named near-mortal injury.

But I digress. All I know is this feeling deep inside me, the feeling that, during a night in the not-distant future, the Littlest Pet Shop pets will disappear. For good. And in total. Except for perhaps Scottie Dog. Because if I’ve ever seen a toy deserving of a broken skull or five, it’s that sucker.

On most days, this is something Adam and I just deal with, because it’s not like we can buy new family. At least, I don’t think so. Perhaps there is an entire Family Member Black Market out there that I am the last one to know about. Kind of like when I finally discovered Facebook in 2008 and kept going around telling people about this BRAND-NEW WEB SITE YOU’VE GOT TO CHECK OUT THIS BRAND-NEW WEB SITE IT’S SO NEEEEEWWWWW.

I’d say Aura has also come to terms with the curse of the small family, but lately I think that might be a touch off the mark. As a matter of fact, I daresay she’s rebelling. This is the biggest clue:

That’s Bath Baby. The only real doll-doll Aura has ever owned, Bath Baby is the result of my mother’s theory that all little girls should have dolls. Unfortunately for Bath Baby, not only was he not worthy of playing with in the bath, as he was intended, he was also not worthy of a proper moniker.

For months, Bath Baby languished in the tub toy bin, his bald head taking on a moldy green kind of sheen, an intensely sour smell emanating from his miniscule onesie. It was sad, but that’s life, and so Bath Baby learned to suck it up.

(dramatic reenactment)

But then Aura started talking about how having a brother or sister might be nice. She was stealthy at first. “Look, Mommy! Look at how cute Ella’s brother is!” she’d say. I’d agree and change the subject, bribing her with candy like all good mothers, every one of whom knows that one lollipop = ten minutes of silence.

I'm saving this Halloween gem for an entire hour of Quiet.

When subtlety failed, Aura ramped up her efforts.  While out to lunch one time last month, Aura realized that the group in the booth behind us included a baby, snugly asleep in his infant carrier. Before I could stop her, she stood up on her seat, casually leaned an elbow on the top of the booth, and waved a mac-and-cheese-stained hand in the other mother’s direction.

“Oh! Your baby is SO CUTE!” she announced at top volume, turning briefly to ensure I was listening. “I wish I had a baby,” she continued, driving home her point by gesturing with a broccoli floret. “I keep TELLING my mommy to grow another baby, but she won’t do it.” There was a dramatic pause, then a deafening sigh, and then she sank to her seat, the weight of her only-childness heavy on her shoulders.

Aside from striking us momentarily speechless, this scene had little effect on Adam and me. And so Aura has thrown the gauntlet once again. This time she’s not alone. This time she is armed.

There are no words this time, not in this phase of attack. There is only Bath Baby. He is constantly present.  He accompanies us most everywhere. It’s uncanny. I walk out of the bathroom, he’s there. I wake up, and he’s on the nightstand. I almost broke a foot on his pointy-ass little hands last night, ignorant as I was of his presence in a DARKENED HALLWAY. AT MIDNIGHT.

You know, there are moments when I weaken, when I think, Hey, a second child might not be that bad of an idea. Aura needs more family. But then I see Bath Baby, with his vacant eyes and mouth-breather lips, and I think, Nah.

The Little People, long relegated to the basement since the Child Owner turned two, were in desperate need of a bath. Covered with dust and beginning to show their age, the Little People resigned themselves to a soapy bath, a must before entering any public water amusement facility. (Also referred to as a P.W.A.F. Just so you know.)

While no one Little Person would have called the bath pleasurable, nary a complaint was made. The frog on Blond Man’s back did experience a panic attack, but dishsoap bubbles muffled his cries. Turns out that Dawn Direct Foam (Lime Surge scent) cuts not only grease, but also panicked screams. Handy.

Bath complete, it was finally time to pass through the gates into the main area of the P.W.A.F. One glance told the Little People all they needed to know: The park had fallen upon Hard Times. Instead of the bumper boats of days past, visitors were now offered Crocs on which to float. Not even real Crocs either. KNOCK-OFF CROCS.

Still relieved to be freed from the basement, the Little People decided to make the best of it. However, Necklace Lady, long homesick for the placid waters of her native Hawaii (French Polynesia? the Federated States of Micronesia?), did bring her cell phone into the boat with her to lodge a complaint, thus proving you can never truly satisfy a Pacific islander.

Headphone Lady fared better, balancing precariously on the tip of her Croc boat. Onlookers could be heard murmuring that she appeared to be on the verge of taking off her top, but these rumors were speedily squashed by the lifeguard, Pilot Man.

From atop his Tupperware observation post, Pilot Man sees and hears everything. Local legend has it that he will put down his steaming cup of coffee and promptly water torture any swimmer who gets out of line, but this might be nothing more than local gossip.

Then again, maybe not.

Happily, Pilot Man had very little other reason to scold park visitors this idyllic day. Nearly everyone behaved themselves admirably, even those waiting in line, a queue that stretched almost as far as the eye could see.

If any of the Little People were anxious about this guy, they hid it well. Apparently men brandishing gigantic wrenches at inappropriate times is not cause for concern at this particular P.W.A.F.

When everyone had their fill of the bumper boats, they moved on to Pirate Island, the P.W.A.F.‘s only other ride. Several Little People jumped in immediately, ignorant of the Dangers That Lurked.

Yet many others remained cautious about the, you know, GIANT SHARK. Kitten Lady opted for the safety of Pirate Island’s beach, her smarmy grin the only hint to her bloodthirsty voyeuristic side.

Cell Phone Man, never the sharpest tool in the shed, performed a lazy backstroke. Cursed with myopic eyes, he never even saw the shark before it ate him. Sigh. Life is so tragic. One minute you’re frolicking at a P.W.A.F., the next you’re nothing more than an inflatable shark’s snack. Rest in peace, Cell Phone Man. Rest in peace.

But Beach Ball Girl? She kept her eyes on the prize. Even as the lifeless bodies of the shark’s victims floated around her, Beach Ball Girl continued to lay claim to the treasure chest. This cold-hearted yet shrewd determination netted her $100,000 in gold coins. She has since used this fortune to start her own line of hair extensions, in partnership with Fisher Price.

The moral of the story? Not all blondes are dumb.

Lunch at the food court was had, conversation was resumed, and many a ride in the mall’s glass elevator was taken. All in all, life was good. Which is why Mother and Daughter should never, ever have stopped into the mall toy store. For that is where Mother was exposed to the stuff that will haunt her nightmare for decades to come. (For the record, Daughter seemed wildly unaffected. Mother questions this. Mother feels that maybe less sheltering needs to take place.)

Without further ado, The Stuff That Will Haunt My Nightmares For Decades to Come, also known as…

BABY DOLLS.

Horrible Horror #1: The Man Baby

You can dress up that sucker in all the pink in the world, but that won’t change the fact that she looks like George Burns. Or possibly Nick Nolte on a really youthful day.

Horrible Horror #2: The Assassin Baby

The manufacturer can swear up and down that this is the “Sleepy Time Dreams” baby, but I for one know the eyes of a killer when I see them. It’s a free country, so, of course, buy this for your kid if you want. But I’d frisk that moon for the world’s tiniest sniper rifle first. Maybe the little yellow cap, too.

Horrible Horror #3: The Opera Baby

Now here’s a doll I can almost get behind. Does he let mere cardboard packaging and the possibility of living for all eternity in the World’s Worst Toy Store get him down? No, indeedy! He flings his chubby plastic arm out with the kind of flourish normally reserved for opera singers. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear him: “Figaro! Figaro! Fiiiiigaro!”

Horrible Horror #4: The Sumo-Politician Baby

Leave it to the close-minded world of toy sales to make the one non-white baby in the store a cross between a sumo wrestler and an infant with a penchant for Hitler’s gestures. Plus the indecency of the high-waisted, polka dot diaper! I almost bought the little bugger just to put him out of his misery in the trash can outside the store.

Horrible Horror #5: The I’ve-Given-Up Baby

Poor little gal. Not even that plastic cable-tie-type thing they tried to lasso her neck with can contain her—or her despair. I thought you only saw such hopeless eyes in those photos of refugees that Time always publishes, but obviously I was mistaken.

Horrible Horror #6: The Morning-After Baby

Now, the box tells us that this is “Baby Sleeping Beauty.” Yet I beg to differ. Last time I saw Aurora, she was shying away from spinning wheels but otherwise hale and hearty. This Sleeping Beauty? Well, let’s just say that she doesn’t look like the type of girl who shies away from anything. It’s spooky, actually. It’s as if she’s taking fashion pointers from Lindsay Lohan but learning how to sit in public from Britney Spears.

Needless to say, Mother will never be the same.

I tell you this because all that guilt is my excuse for purchasing the following:

Yet I am still scrambling for an excuse to explain why the woman on the pool box infuriates me so. I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that I find myself reluctantly subsisting almost entirely on cucumbers and Fiber One bars (Oats ‘n’ Chocolate!). Whatever the impetus, this Mother Who Swims with Her Kids in a Silver Lamé Bikini is really annoying the hell out of me.

A closer look.

As I spent 20 sweaty minutes pumping up the pool today, I kept casting looks over my shoulder, unable to stop glaring at the Mother Who Swims with Her Kids in a Silver Lamé Bikini’s smarmy grin. Or, for that matter, the Mother Who Swims with Her Kids in a Silver Lamé Bikini’s abs, which I am fairly certain are approximately 273% more defined than my own. Also, those fake kids of hers might very well be better behaved than mine. Though I doubt that last one, since the boy looks a bit like a Kennedy and, well, we all know how THAT goes.

Twenty minutes is a long time to glare at one hussy, so I eventually let my gaze wander over the rest of the box. And I started to feel a little better.

The above? That’s information about the pool. In Finnish. Maybe’s it me, but trying to sell an inflatable pool to consumers in Finland seems a little…optimistic. As I pumped and then pumped some more, it occurred to me that selling pools in Finland is kind of like selling snowman-building kits in Ecuador. “Snowmen in Ecuador!” I chuckled to myself, enlightened by my own genius. I tell you, I may not have abs of steel, but I am positively AWASH in marketing savvy.

Then there was this:

Maybe this is also targeted to Finns. Perhaps the Splash and Play! marketing folks believe the Finnish people to be not only a hearty people, eager to thumb their noses at a naturally frosty climate, but also a people equipped with ginormous mouths. A race of humans who could actually manage the attempted swallowing of a six-foot-long piece of plastic, which is the only possible way the Splash and Play! pool could be a choking hazard.

And that right there really put it into perspective for me. I may not have a sculpted stomach, and my closet may indeed be woefully empty of  lamé bikinis. But at least no one has ever believed me capable of trying to swallow a pool. In my book, this counts for a lot.

This one, though, I’ll have to watch out for:

If you could see what she does to Hershey’s Kisses…well. Let’s just say you’d be worried, too.

Admission #1:

Perhaps the CraZCookn’ marketing gurus were so exhausted by the Herculean task of spelling two common words with three fewer letters that they didn’t have the energy to appropriately audition box models. For if I am not mistaken, the taller girl is muttering something distinctly unChristian between her teeth to the other, dim-looking girl. Something along the lines of “Move over or I will stick this elbow into your still-developing boob, just like my older sister Shannon Doherty taught me. And then my agent will eat your agent, FOR BREAKFAST.”

Admission #2:

If a person were pressed to identify the Marshmallow Maker’s least appealing trait, that person might have to say it’s the 371 parts that need to be washed before use. After all, a mother doesn’t want her developing child to ingest factory chemicals. Except after the 52nd piece falls down the garbage disposal and has to be retrieved by hand. At that point the kid is welcome to all the nitrobenzene she wants. Godspeed, daughter, and happy snacking.

Admission #3:

Well, shoot. If I’d known about the Yellow 5 and/or Blue 1 beforehand, I wouldn’t have even picked up a sponge. Talk about freakin’ gilding the lily.

Admission #4:

Somewhere, some food safety lab is enjoying an early, CraZCookn’-sponsored happy hour. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, Gerald,” says one lab worker to another. “I thought for sure you wouldn’t find one actual mineral in that stuff. But then you go ahead and not only do you find calcium, you top yourself with a trace of riboflavin!” The Heineken flows. Or, more precisely, the HeiNekn’.

Admission #5:

The instructions tell you to add water to the marshmallow mix and then “stir to a toothpaste thickness.” I tried my best to gross out Aura as she stirred, making all kind of mentions of vomit and bird poop, but nothing. If the folks at CraZCookn’ have taught me anything, it’s that you can’t disgust a three-year-old. You can, however, make her father retch for five whole minutes, and that’s worth $11.99 right there.

 Admission #6:

I  know. EXACTLY what I was thinking: How can this white stuff possibly turn blue simply by mixing with water?

“Now THAT!” I cried to Aura. “THAT is SCIENCE!” Having already explained both mermaids and the Loch Ness Monster earlier that afternoon, I felt that it was a particularly solid day of science education. Preschool may teach her about rocket ships, but here at home SHE LEARNS THE TRUTH.

Admission #7:

When I looked down at the baggies of white powder scattered across the counter, I couldn’t help but sigh. “In another life,” I murmured, “this might have looked illicit.” I tell you:  A woman goes and has a kid, and it’s like her dreams of being a cocaine dealer just fly right out the window.

Admission #8:

If I had bought Aura the Marshmallow Maker, this would have been the end result. And it might have tasted like puffy bird poop after all.

Thank God for hypotheticals.