Obsession - Children's Toys

This is a Public Service Announcement. I repeat. This is a Public Service Announcement.

If you ever come across this toy…

…run far away. Run far, far away. Run as far away as humanly possible. But stop before you get to China. Because this is where this messed up shit began.

Lincoln received this Fucking Piece of Shit Toy (herein referred to as FPoST) for his birthday about seven months ago. There were many reasons to throw it away immediately. We already have a farm toy. We don’t need a second one. But, as the Fates would have it, the box of the FPoST was mangled in what I believe to be a run-in with a mean Chihuahua. So I couldn’t even give this FPoST away in the classic re-gift fashion. (Not that I would ever do that.)

So it sat in my garage for seven months. My kids would file in and out of the car and gaze longingly at the toy to which I would reply, “Keep it moving. Keep it moving. We already have FPoST farm.”

Well one day last week I was feeling weak. And I agreed to open it for them.

Now I know I am not the first parent to bemoan the particular cruelty and the insane torture of opening children’s toys. But who is this sadist that engineers these various twist-ties, plastic tags and super-strength tape to package these things? Someone who hates people. Because it isn’t enough that we bleed ourselves dry to buy these toys for our children but now we must physically suffer as well.

I begin my journey into Hades by pulling at the cardboard box for a good five minutes before I decide to get the knife. Since I was already feeling stabby, I am able to get some aggression out on the FPoST’s outer layer.

Success. I’m on the inside. I’m feeling good. I see my next obstacle. There is not one, not two, not three…but 12 twist-ties to unravel. And each twist-tie is doubled-up for good measure. I decided to roll up my sleeves and sit down on the floor to get the job done. The kids are impatient though and start berating me to go faster. My heart is racing under the pressure and it isn’t helping matters. “Hurry Mama! Hurry! What is taking so long?!?!?” Even Lincoln chimes in, “Mama, toy! Mama, toy! Pease Mama! Pease!!! Toy!!!” I’m sweating profusely now.

It takes me 15 minutes just to untie the bastard, demon twisties. Now I have to pull them out of the FPoST. But for some reason, they are stuck in there and refuse to come out. My sweaty hands keep slipping right off so I dry them. But now my skin feels as if it is going to tear open as I tug, curse, tug, curse, curse, tug my way through another 15 minutes.

Those bitches still won’t come out. Lincoln has now pooped and I’m trying to hide my nose in my shirt so I don’t inhale the fetid fumes. I’m either too determined or too lazy to stop and change him. You take a random guess as to which is the case.  

Finally I figure out that bending, tugging, cursing, bending, tugging, cursing is the best strategy. They all come out. I release the farm from the box and find eight more twisties on the inside.

By the time I am finished, the kids have moved on to other toys and don’t give a shit about this particular FPoST. When I discover that it also needs batteries, I roll up into fetal position and suck my thumb for an hour.

The FPoST now sits on our shelf as a reminder – a reminder of the tenuous nature of our international relationship with China, a reminder that my children no longer respect me because I can’t open a toy for them in under an hour, and a reminder that I need to clean house one of these days.

Damn, that FPoST is dusty.