My Life with the Monster Boy, Episode 1
I have never met a parent in my life who did not at some point or another make this claim: “I never had as many toys as my son/daughter!”
I wasn’t sure what the point of the statement was. I didn’t know whether it meant ‘I’m going to spoil the kid rotten in order to avoid having to deal with more subtle displays of affection’, or ‘damn I’m rich.’
Now that I have a child, I can decode the real meaning after having caught myself uttering that mysterious phrase—a sure sign of entry into the club of slightly freaked out parents. I too, without an ounce of irony declared: “I never had as many toys as my son!”
As I heard myself say it, I finally understood the actual translation; it really means, “How can the same parents, who assured me over multiple Christmases that clothing was a decent present, now shower my child with colourful plush or plastic items which seem to have no other function than to drive me entirely mad?”
Okay, first off, I’m pretty sure that we all had just as many toys as our own kids, but have forgotten about them. The same way that five minutes after pitching a fit on the living room floor, demanding that daddy get them something off of the top shelf, they drop it behind the couch and play with the TV remote screwing up all of the programming that you will need them to fix for you when they’re fifteen and can explain all of your electronics.
But that’s the thing. We think their toys outnumber ours because their toys are all armed with an arsenal of things that ours never had. Like squeaky voices that go off when you walk by, or pre-programmed demands that interrupt cuddling with your wife when you think that your child is safe in bed and you’re off duty.
I love my son. I can spend all day with him. Even when he’s grumpy. It’s his toys that make me feel like I’m being held hostage. Up-Up Elmo is like some sort of terrorist who will hold your living room hostage until his demands are met.
Picture this: you’ve finally put your energetic toddler to bed and you go lie down on the couch in front of the TV because you are so fried from chasing the tiny (but lovable!) tyrant around all day, when suddenly, from some unknown place in the room Elmo declares “Elmo loves you!”
It is kind of amusing. The first time.
Your wife staggers in to join you, and Elmo then declares, “Elmo up please.”
You share a laugh.
But does the pushy little fluff shut up? No.
Halfway through whatever TV show the satellite decides to show you, you’ve lost all track of what’s going on because electronic giggling periodically emerges every time the dog scratches.
You will end up on your hands and knees, pushing a broom handle under every piece of furniture to find the red fuzzy dictator.
That will of course be the exact moment that Speak and Learn Puppy loudly demands from the stack of toys by your foot, “Hug me!”
Elmo, not willing to be upstaged launches into another round of ‘love yous!’ and giggling.
I very much hope that it doesn’t make me a bad person to want to push two plush and theoretically lovable toys into a pit to fight each other to the death, with the sincere hope that the survivor will be so traumatised that it will do nothing more than sit shivering in the corner until its batteries wear out.
By the time you have found and subdued both toys, your relaxation time has somehow been turned into an hour of crawling around on the floor fighting dust bunnies.
Then, as you sit there, with your wife who is very considerately doing her best not to look at you like you are irretrievably insane—your hands twitching around the throats of your oppressors—gently reminds you that these are the monster boy’s very favourite toys, and no matter how bad you feel right now, tomorrow will be much, much worse should they not be here in the morning.
I very much love the monster boy.
I very much love my wife.
I will however say that beyond that, I hereby declare everlasting enmity for squeaking, speaking toys that lurk in the dark areas of a relaxing adult’s living room. You hear me Elmo? You listening Speak and Learn Puppy? ‘Cause as God is my witness, when my son is done with you, I’m coming after you, and the only comfort you can take is that I’ve promised my loving and tolerant wife that I will remove your batteries before I have the bonfire…
August 30th, 2007 at 11:37 am
My daughter has a wooden jigsaw puzzle with dinosaurs—you fit a dinosaurs into the cutout, and the dinosaur roars. You should have seen the look on our faces the first night we had it. When it got dark, there was a sudden roaring from somewhere in the living room!