to be that way.”
“Right.”
Divert attention. For example: “Mommy, why is the sky blue?”
“Oh, look, dear. There’s a pigeon squatting on our car.”
Set up someone else for the “Why” game. For example: “Mommy, why is the sky blue?”
“That’s the color of outer space as seen through the air we breathe.”
“Why?”
“Gee, honey, you’ll have to ask your father about that.”
“Why?”
“Because he has ALL the answers. Oooh, look at that pigeon.”
Gimme That Educational Toy
Don’t you love the realism dolls? In the seventies we had Baby Wet ‘n Care which, after its caregiver poured special fluid into its little tulip mouth, dots on the baby’s bottom turned red. The pretend mommy could then remove its soggy diaper and swab its plastic buns with the antidote to turn them fleshy pink again. Trouble was, too much fluid turned the rash dots too red and pink liquid would ooze through the diaper and drip onto the floor, something akin to, well, a hemorrhage. We did this when my daughter was three. She had nightmares for a week and never touched another doll for the rest of her life.
But now we have Rude Rudy, a good ole boy doll that passes air, noisily, from one end of his plastic body to the other, depending on where you poke him.
My question is, why do we diddle around with adding such subtle and frivolous bits of realism to our dolls? Why are toy makers so timid? Why can’t we lay all of life’s major crises right out there for every toddler to see and deal with? Dolls like these:
Baby Sick ‘n Die
Hey, kids, get the thrill of actually losing a loved one. Squeeze baby’s hand and feel the forehead heat up. Watch as real beads of sweat trickle down her cheeks. Then prepare to be amazed as the little heartbeat stops, the doll turns from pink to blue and the eyes freeze open. You can close the eyelids to make her look peaceful while at rest. Place her hands on her chest with realistically interlocking fingers. Then you and your friends will have tons of fun arranging the funeral. Coffin, hearse and headstone sold separately. Comes with software you can use to generate a legal death certificate. Send it to the Social Security Administration for benefits; they’ll probably send you a check. When the funeral is over, you can do it all over again by flipping the reset switch in the baby’s armpit. Suddenly, she comes back to life, giggling and cooing just like before, that is, until you squeeze the hand again and the fever cycle returns. It is programmable to show symptoms of three diseases. Batteries not included.
Baby Leprosy
Here’s a doll that will keep your child fascinated for days. Take her out of the box and she looks like any other baby doll. But wait. Give her a bath and her skin begins to fester. In less than a day, she looks horrible. Within 24 hours, her nose falls off. Then her limbs shrivel and detach. Her hair falls out. Tip her over and she cries, “Mercy. Mercy.” Available accessories include banishment caves, ragged clothing and spare limbs. Warning to parents: once the degradation process begins, it cannot be reversed. In fact, you might want to put it in quarantine for a long time.
Captain Contagious
Here’s a doll your little one will want to take to school or the grocery store. Squeeze this adorable baby and watch people’s faces as it retches up a loud, hacking cough and then sneezes, emitting a colored spray in which ever direction its little breath is aimed. You can always tell who will get the disease by whoever’s clothes show color. The beautiful bisque-faced baby is dressed in a velvet sailor’s suit and cap. Nobody will ever suspect he’s contagious.
STD Barbie
If you thought Barbie and her friends were just symbols of stuck-up, spoiled teenagers, here’s a Barbie that is one of the most educational toys of the season. STD Barbie is very popular in doll-land because she loves to party, mostly with Ken and his friends, and usually all together. Barbie’s fun is not all a bed of roses, however, as she suddenly doesn’t feel so well. You can program her to show signs of any of 14 sexually transmitted diseases from syphilis to Chlamydia or crabs, herpes, gonorrhea or even AIDS. What a lesson your little girl will learn as she watches STD Barbie writhe in pain and then lapse into a coma. Antidotes for diseases, hospital outfits and resuscitation equipment sold separately. Set includes $10.00 rebate coupon for Safe Sex Barbie.
Well, it’ll be a rough choice next Christmas. Which realism doll shall I buy for my little girl? Gosh, maybe just a cuddly old bear.
Breaking Away
The bike is too big. His legs are too small. But he’s watching over my shoulder as I fit the crescent wrench snugly around the nut that holds the training wheels in place.
It is too soon. He is too young. I am not ready for this. But he has worn the rubber thin on the outrigger wheels and he has asserted his readiness for this rite of passage. “Dad, I’m ready. I know I am.” We’ve been here before. I remember the panic -stricken face and the crashes. But maybe he’s right this time.
There. Amputation complete. The boy is somewhat in awe that the machine no longer stands on its own. It requires attention. Guidance. Now it needs him. He hesitates and I can see a twinge of danger forming an infinitesimal crack in the four year-old’s resolve.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, bud?” I ask the boy who, even in his helmet, is not yet as high as my belt.
“Yep,” he replies.
He mounts the mighty bull. He’s moving into his dorm at University. He’s going off to war. He’s driving away in the family car for the first time. He’s mowing the lawn for his first customer. He’s getting on the bus to camp for two weeks away from home.
He begins to pedal and I run alongside. The handlebars wobble. His balance is off. If only he can get stabilized for a minute and feel the control. There, he’s got it… oops, caught him. Try it again. And again. Up and down the street we move, dad murmuring encouragement through gasps for breath, clinging to the back of the seat, the young jet fighter pilot unsure at the controls. Finally he yells, “Dad, I got it. Let go.”
I know this will end badly. I can hear his mom yelling inside my head, “It’s too soon. Save it for later. He’s not big enough. My baby will be broken.” Maybe so. But pain is good. How else is the kid going to learn? I give the seat one shove, hoping the momentum will help keep him upright for awhile. And he goes, pedaling as fast as he can, determined to master this thing. Five yards, ten yards, twenty. He’s staying up and doing great. But now he should turn. It’s the end of the street. “Turn!” I yell. “I can’t” comes the reply weakly. I bolt for where I’m sure the scene of the accident will be and, through sheer force of will, catch him upright as he jumps the curb, having actually made nearly half a turn. Face flushed, panting, his eyes wide, my son said, “I did it. I did it. I want to do it again. Can I do it again?”
“Sure,” I said, beaming at the thrill of the close call. “Just let me catch my breath. And let’s work on the turns a bit.” A half dozen U-turns later, he was back on the launch pad. “Dad running?” Check. “Kid pedaling like a sewing machine?” Check. “Dad pushing off?” Check. Liftoff. The little figure with the pumping legs recedes into the distance. He’s off to the prom. Off to football. Off to school. Off to Helsinki to accept the Nobel Peace Prize. He nears the end of the street. He slows. Wobbles. Turns. Wobbles some more. Turns some more. Makes it around and races back, yelling, “I did it! I did it! I did it!” As he nears me, I reach for the bike, as he really hasn’t mastered brakes yet. “Yes, son, you did it.” Fine grades. Advanced degrees. Loving wife. Grandkids. And an excellent choice of nursing homes for your mother and me. “I’m proud of you, son. Should we put those training wheels back on now?”
“No way,” he said, looking somewhat larger on the bike than he did 30 minutes ago. “I want to ride some more.”
“Okay, young man. Whatever you say.”
All We Are Saying is Give Peas a Chance
Why should my kid like vegetables? I hated vegetables. Yet, just as our pare
nts predicted, we have become the Ogres of Good Eating. How many Brussels sprouts have been poached to perfection only to find themselves rolling into the disposal? How many lumps of spinach have been camouflaged behind potato barriers only to join the parade of rejected veggies heading to the water treatment plant? That’s a great image, isn’t it? ... a nightly parade of vegetables joining with one another, tributary by tributary as they make their way to the local treatment plant, robust in their vitamin supremacy, congratulating themselves at having achieved this fate instead of the alternative which, by the way, would get them to the same place only about 12 hours later. Yet, it is all too common to hear this dialog at dinner:
“Please eat your carrots.”
“Yes, Mommy.” Ten minutes pass. “Can I be done?”
“You haven’t eaten your carrots.”
“How ‘bout if I eat one?”
“Four.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Deal. What’s for dessert?”
How, we reason, can children grow up tall and clear-skinned, brilliant and polite if they don’t eat their vegetables? It is worth every sacrifice and personal indignity to force children to do what’s good for them because we don’t want to feel guilty when they are teenagers and they aren’t tall, they have pimples so bad you’re afraid to hug them; they get D’s in gym and they treat you like a foreign object. The last
Toddler Tales: An Older Dad Survives the Raising of Young Children in Modern America Page 13