Category Archives: Random Toy Box

Posts on the general topic of family.

Name that tune – the home edition

One of the toys that has been passed down from the first son to the second is a baby activity exersaucer. You lower the baby down into the cockpit in the middle of this toy. He can then turn himself around and play with any of the myriad interesting toys on the circular, outer ledge.

baby playing in exersaucer

Multitasking: picking out some music to enjoy with Mr. Sunshine.

I like this toy. It can buy a busy parent up to 15 minutes of baby-free, two-handed productivity. In 15 minutes, the baby will realize that the outer ring of toys is not really that interesting after all. The baby will begin to wail his head off for someone to come extract him from a device he now considers little more than a psychological prison.

But that 15 minutes is golden.

baby biting Mr. Sunshine

Lunging to give Mr. Sunshine a kiss – or bite him. With that new tooth running the show, you never know what that little mouth is going to do.

One of the toys on the outer ring of our saucer is a group of large buttons with an image of an animal on each. Every time one of these buttons is pushed, the device says a word, or makes a noise, associated with the pictured animal. If the baby is successful in pushing one of the buttons four times in succession, he is rewarded with a snippet of classical music. The one exception to this is the cow button, which plays Old MacDonald, as if the designers could not find a fifth piece of classical music in the public domain.

baby wailing on music

That blur in the middle is the baby’s arm beating on the music player in a fit of classical music dance fever.

The baby, like is brother before him, really enjoys hearing the music. He smiles and swings his arms. The selections are quite lively and melodic, excepting, of course, the insipid Old MacDonald. In fact, the whole family enjoys these bits of music, especially Big Brother, to whom, it seems, they bring back the pleasant memories of his own distant youth.

One day, the baby was pounding away on the cat button when we were all rewarded with the inspired notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Big Brother’s eyes lit up. “I know that music!” he shouted with glee.

It warmed a father’s heart to know that this timeless melody had stayed with him through the years. Maybe he would develop an aptitude for music. Maybe he would become a great musician himself – our own little prodigy.

“That’s the Judge Judy song!” he declared.

And so it is.

You’re wasting everybody’s time, Daddy

When you turn four, life picks up the pace on you. Suddenly, you have a preschool commitment. All the clothes you wore when you were three are now too small or too unfit for your level of sophistication. You’ve got to run around town to find the right blue jeans, a backpack, and even a lunch bag. You’re a busy man when you’re four.

That’s why it’s important to still make time to play. And when you do play, you can’t let grown-ups slow you down with a lot of red tape. You know what needs to get done, play-wise, and you can’t afford to suffer a bunch of time-wasting questions from adults.

I was playing trucks with my son the other day. He had a car transporter truck and a car that rides on it. I was in charge of the car while he drove the truck. He would unload the car for me, I would drive it around for bit, then he would come back with the truck to pick it up again. It was all a very smooth cycle until I started throwing monkey wrenches into the process.

One time, he backed up the truck and set down the ramp for me to drive up. “How do I know you’re the right truck?” I asked.

Toy truck with car on top

Foreground: my hand, holding the stack of paperwork the truck driver gave me to look through. Background: my expensive car, about to be taken away on what might be the wrong truck!

“Because I have a number one on the front,” replied.

“That’s fine, but do you have any paperwork I could look at?” I persisted.

He rolled his eyes at the delay, but took out his imaginary paperwork and handed it over.

I looked through the manifest. “It doesn’t say you’re the right truck anywhere in here,” I told him.

“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll go ask my boss.” He drove the truck across the carpet to the area where his supposed boss hung out. I didn’t see any boss, but it was six feet away, and with my aging eyesight, I could have missed him. The boy backed the truck up to my car again. “Yup, my boss says I’m the right truck.”

“Okay, well, if your boss says so.” I drove up onto the truck with some reluctance.

boy with toy truck

Getting my car onto the truck, quickly, efficiently, and free of paperwork.

A minute later, the truck came back and dropped off my new car. I was delighted. I drove it around the floor with great excitement.

The truck traveled across the room and back again, backing up in the telltale way that indicated it was here to pick up my car again.

“Are you the right truck?” I asked the driver.

“Yes. And I don’t have any paperwork, so just get on!” he replied.

That’s the way business gets done.

I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t know everything

My son has come to the conclusion that I know the answer to every question. I have mixed feelings about this development. It is much better than having him conclude that I am ignorant in all things and not worth the time of his curious mind. Yet, it is a tad disheartening to know that I am being thought a liar every time I answer a question with, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know.” is not an acceptable answer. The boy knows that I do know. Of course I know. I know everything. If I say I don’t know, it’s because I’m too lazy to explain the complex workings of the world or I am part of some adult conspiracy to keep kids in the dark concerning the most important facts about life.

And the facts he yearns to know are vitally important to his life. One of the questions that nags at him most often is, “Who sings this song?” when we are listening to the radio. Sometimes, I can answer him; sometimes I can’t. Whenever I have to tell him that I don’t know who sings this song, his face becomes clouded with suspicion. His gut tells him there is some reason why I am holding this information from him, some special reason why grown-ups are so secretive about this particular song. “Won’t you please tell me?” he begs, hoping that by using a nice word and some emphasis he will find the key to unlock my stingy omnipotence.

Lately, he has fashioned a new phrase to combat my withholding of knowledge from him. “Won’t you tell me the whole truth?” he says whenever I answer a question with “I don’t know.” There’s a hint of accusation in this, which is, I suspect, a deliberate tactic by my little Perry Mason to let me know that he is on to my deceit and that I have only a short time to make my confession before he traps me within my own web of lies.

One day, we were riding in the car when we had to pull over to let an ambulance go by. “Follow the ambulance,” the boy commanded from his back-seat throne. “I want to see who’s dead.”

Of course, I couldn’t follow a speeding ambulance and it soon disappeared. Later, the ambulance passed us again, going in the opposite direction. “They must be taking somebody to the hospital,” I said.

“Who’s dead?” the boy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Won’t you please tell me?”

“How could I possibly know? I’ve been here with you the whole time.”

“Daddy, won’t you tell me the whole truth?”

“Okay,” I relented cracking the code of silence mandated by the secret circle of adulthood. “Old Joe Tootinbutt is dead,” I ad-libbed. “They’re taking him to the cemetery right now.”

The boy seemed satisfied. The conspiracy continues. . .

Scene in a crowded courtroom.

“You expect me to believe that you have no idea who killed Mr. Boddy in the library with the candlestick? Come now, Colonel Mustard, won’t you tell me the whole truth?” (Artist: James E. Taylor)

If you want to keep your feet, Daddy, stay on your toes

There are enough families in the world with too little love in them that I don’t want to sound as if I am complaining about having too much love following me around the house. Don’t think of it as complaining. Think of it as documenting.

Really? A stationary piece of furniture is enough to take you down, Dick? I guess life was simpler in your black and white world. (CBS Television)

My three-year-old son likes to be close to me. It often seems to me that the only time he is not climbing on me is when he is following me around, trying to make me trip over him. In this regard, I’m a bit like Dick Van Dyke, except that the ottoman I trip over every night has active legs and relocates himself to wherever my path is likely to turn.

When we walk together, he likes to lead the way. This puts him in excellent position to stop without warning, which, in turn, is a wonderful way to prod Daddy into spinning, juking, hop-stepping, and showing off all the other moves that would have made him an All-Pro halfback if only pro scouts looked for talent in the kitchens of middle-aged dads.

I am in most danger when I am walking alone, because I am never truly walking alone. There is always a little stealth obstacle sneaking up behind me, waiting for the inevitable moment when I must turn. Since there are no long straightaways in our house, he doesn’t have long to wait. I will turn and throw myself wildly into the avoidance ballet that his presence demands. And while I am gyrating so gracefully, I might as well jeté over to the fridge and get him the juice he so silently came to request.

The accomplice. Layabout cat by day; Daddy-tripping fiend by night.

As if the boy couldn’t cause me to break my ankles by himself, he has an ally in the endeavor. The cat gets a little snack before bedtime. At about two hours before bedtime, the cat starts to follow me around the house, just in case I feel like giving him his treat early. Whenever I go in the general direction of his bowl, the cat attempts to run between my feet to lead me there. I’ve done many a tap dance around that cat, and his tail has dampened my tread on numerous occasions.

When the boy and the cat get to thinking alike, I become a veritable whirling dervish of sidestepping stardom. They are a dangerous pair, especially if I happen to be carrying the baby. Don’t worry on the baby’s account though. Through my long hours of practice for the Pro Bowl, I have learned to carry him like a football and to avoid fumbling. When my tackler grows tall enough for me to straight-arm, I will have an added defense. The baby will be fine. I figure I’ll be hop frogging over him too pretty soon, right about the time I get the replacement hip installed.