Jan
17
January 17, 2007
Lately, I am finding more value in the days I stay home with Riley because of this: in his father’s absence, I think the kid really likes me.
When JB is around, it is like the moon and stars have arrived, finally, jesus, and I am downgraded to something less important in a toddler’s life. Such as, for instance, the 1998 fiscal performance of Fidelity’s large-cap overseas mutual funds. Or perhaps the nutritional content in one serving of applesauce*.
(*Hey, did you know you can substitute 1/4 cup applesauce and 2 teaspoons of oil in a cookie recipe for each missing egg you do not have? Well, you do now! Sundrymourning.com: striving to provide both educational content and as many references as possible to the porn term “piledriver” since 2002.)
There are some (incredibly) boring stretches to the stay-at-home gig, for sure, but I like the fact that I can greedily demand all of Riley’s attention and get it, because unless Elmo is on the tube I’m pretty much his best source of entertainment. Well, unless the cat wanders by. Or he discovers a piece of fluff under the couch.
World’s #1 Mom! Right behind a piece of fluff! Fuck you, Dog, you’re fourth on the list!
I’m still not sure what the key is to a successful stay-at-home day. If I try and clean, I usually feel frustrated by the fact that I’m not really paying attention to the boy and also he’s freaked out by the vacuum and stands around pointing at it with great dismay and yelling “Teh? Bah?” over and over and maybe I’m causing psychological damage or something? (I mean, maybe that’s what happened to JB. I can think of no other explanation for the fact that he acts as though touching the vacuum’s handle will instantly shrink his penis.)
Of course, if I don’t clean, then I feel like a giant slob and once Mr. Moon-and-Stars comes home I rush around trying to corral the dog hair and so on, and let me tell you, performing maidlike duties while Riley practically swoons and asks for JB’s autograph is a great way to feel like…well, I was going to say Cinderella but that’s not quite it, because there are NO GLASS SLIPPERS IN SIGHT, maybe more like…Mr. Belvedere. Only with less sex appeal.
Also, I’m ready for the sun to come out and the temperatures to warm so I can take Riley outside, instead of being cooped up in our house that offers little in the way of open running spaces for an active kid. Of course, I live in Seattle, so that’ll be in abooooouuut — five months. If we’re lucky.
So I try and think of places to go, but man, indoor public spaces are kind of hard lately. Mostly because once he hits the ground he’s off, he’s like one of those little cars you rev up by rolling it a few times and then you touch it to the floor and bmmmmmmmm, it’s gone. He’s a crazy drunken frat boy, careening all over the place with no sense of direction nor any kind of understanding about glass walls (BAM!) or people’s legs (“Oh, sorry! Sorry! Excuse us!”) or inedible things on the ground (“No, no, no, we don’t eat cigarette butts! At least not until you’re 22 and you’re at a kegger drinking from a plastic beer cup and you taste something funny and discover someone else’s sodden Camel Light in your mouth!”). And woe unto all within earshot if I have to pick him up, or redirect him, or do anything whatsoever that doesn’t jive with his runty independent ass, because oh my god, the screaming.
Mostly I end up chasing him, red-faced and sweaty (MILF? I don’t think so. Try DOUCHEBAG [Dogged-Out Unkept Chick Heaving Effortfully, Bulbous And Grunting]), while he gallops at top speed and irritatedly swipes away my scrabbling grip. Engaging in our two-man show at a playground seems fine, performing outside of Old Navy while anorexic teenagers snicker and hike up their ultra low-rise cargos is less pleasurable.
I need an indoor toddler dog park, basically. Where parents can come and throw balls at for their children and just hang out. I don’t mean a “Mommy and Me” class, because…no, or Gymboree, or any group activity-based event (he gets lots of socialization at daycare and that gives me a Get Out of Jail Free card for that shit, right? …Right?), I mean a giant carpeted room with toys where kids can just go batshit and I can, I don’t know, read a book. While my invisible maid cleans my house. And then we can all ride home on my magical flying unicorn pony named, of course, PileDriver.
Jan
15
January 15, 2007
Today was a Workplace holiday — no disrespect to MLK’s legacy, but for me this has always been one of those, “Wait, what do you mean there’s no mail today?” holidays; ditto President’s Day — and after Riley and I had watched a little Elmo, gone on a fruitless outing for a sled, and walked a skittering, careful path around our still-snowy neighborhood with the backpack carrier (which, now that Riley’s bigger and heavier: oy, as in oy, my fuckin’ back), we found ourselves mired in the late afternoon doldrums, the Long Dark Tea-Time of the Toddler Soul.
While he assessed and rejected a variety of distractions I offered and ultimately became thoroughly entranced with the Roomba Virtual Wall Unit (all I can guess is that the buttons look vaguely like the Lotto machine thingie at the grocery checkout line, and lord knows he loves to punch the everloving shit out of those), I decided to document some of Riley’s more awful toys, the ones that I hide in his closet until times of great despair and desperation.
First of all, the corn popper:
I call this the Corn Baller, because I can’t help it, and I’ve been watching a LOT of Arrested Development lately. It seemed like such a cute toy idea for his first birthday. And it is cute, sort of. At first. I mean, until he’s been pushing it for longer than 2.3 seconds, after which time the BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG of those balls “popping” kind of, ha ha, makes you feel like you’re going craaaaAAAAAZY.
The talking, singing dog:
My family bought this for Riley, because they are a vengeful lot who have not forgotten the Manic Panic hairdye stains I left on their towels in high school. This terrifying Fisher-Price plush hellhound giggles, sings, and chirps little phrases, depending on where it’s being touched (Inappropriate Contact Dog complete with rape whistle is a separate model). I can personally attest to the fact that if you throw this dog into a closet with great force, it will pause long enough for you to assume it’s turned off, then an unearthly giggle will float out from behind the closet door and a squeaky voice will accuse, “You got my nose!”
The talking, singing fridge magnets:
Another gift from my side of the family. Ah, I can still hear their diabolical laughter during the Christmas present-opening festivities this year.
This is a LeapFrog product that has various animal shapes that can be stuck together, and a plethora of things that can be pushed in order to produce noise. The animal shapes, when pushed, belch forth a hideously catchy tune that goes, “You made a match! Look what you’ve done! Something something something cow pig horse something SOUND! MOOOO (baaaa, neiiigh, ETC)!”
The whole nightmarish ensemble is meant to cling to the fridge, probably so you can whip up a nutritious dinner while Junior, handily distracted, stays out of your way.
Of course Riley loves it. OF COURSE.
The nostalgic Parker Brothers toy:
Here’s one from JB’s parents, who learned that Riley loves any kind of phone and so went to a Goodwill looking for a toy version — then gifted Riley with his very own Merlin Electronic Wizard. Once you flip the switch to On, the toy intones, “I AM MERLIN. SELECT GAME. SELECT GAME.” Merlin also has such witty repartee as “MERLIN WINS” and “MINDBENDER”. Riley is fond of the Music Machine setting on Merlin, I am fond of hiding Merlin in the bottom of his closet underneath the singing dog.
The wooden puzzle:
Another one from JB’s family (I think?). A nice wooden puzzle seems pleasant enough, doesn’t it? Sure it is, until you’ve stepped on one of those motherfucking shitass pieces of wood for the billionth time OW GODDAMMIT. That missing piece in the upper left? Is totally embedded in my right foot.
The “Pop Goes the Weasel” phobia-box:
(Don’t go freaking about the octopus, now. Octopuses = totally cool, unlike the monkey death box.)
I got this music box toy as a baby present when I was still pregnant and had to put on the fakiest smile of gratitude you ever saw because I swear to god I would have rather opened a box of live tarantulas than this box that requires you to turn a little crank while it plays its horrifying tune and the inevitable heart-stopping conclusion grows ever closer as the music tinkles on and on and a single solitary droplet of sweat begins to run down the side of your face oh my god oh my god and the crank turns one…more…time and space and time seem to hang silent and echoing and FUCK!!! – a monkey leaps out and eats your face pops up.
Seriously, this thing is even worse than those Pillsbury biscuit cans. I think my idea of hell would involve this box, a bunch of biscuit cans, and someone slowly blowing up a neverending supply of balloons.
I’ve tried to play it for Riley, but I end up cringing so much and shielding my face (okay, I might have some…mental problems, here) that I can barely hold it together long enough for the monkey to do its thing. Riley is mostly interested in trying to shove the monkey back down into the box once it’s popped, while I take the time to catch my breath and fan my sweaty décolletage.
Anyway, those are the worst of the lot. I didn’t even get around to the spinning, rideable zebra with lights and music (LOVE YOU, MOM), or the fake CD player thing that squeaks, “I love to sing nursery rhymes!” in such an oddly porn-star voice I can’t help inserting my own dialogue (“I love to do the piledriver!”), or the xylophone which can be banged on over and over and over and over and over and over, oh my god.
However, they have all saved my sorry ass on more than one occasion during the Long Dark Toddler Times, and so here they stay. Along with the Roomba Wall Unit, of course.
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