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Browsing Tag: toys

So Full of It

We’re doing such a good job, I think. We don’t buy lots of toys for our kids. They’re content with what they have, I say. We regularly weed out toys they don’t use or have outgrown and give them away. We are so anti-establishment, I think. Take that, consumerism, I think some more. We are above you. And then I realize how a) annoying my brain is, and b) I’m full of shit.My mother saw the kids the other night–David was out of town, and I’m wrecked with a cold, so she and my aunt called to say they were driving over to help out for a bit (having super nice retired folk who live within an hour radius of your house and are either related to/love you is a lucky, lucky thing). She was sitting with them, and she leaned over to say, “Now, girls. I know it’s early, but I’d really like it if you could give me some ideas of what you’d like for Christmas soon. Like, within the next couple of weeks…

What We Don’t Know

It’s the barely perceptible shushing noise that tips me off. Cian, quietly, slyly, opening the door to his oldest sister’s room–the one she keeps closed to keep her sacred space free of American Girl-mauling dogs and three-year-old little brothers–then slowly, carefully, easing it closed again. I let him go for a few minutes, maybe five, partly because I don’t feel like playing Mean Mom right now, and partly because I’m a terribly nosy person, and curious to see what could be so fascinating in Saoirse’s room that he wanted to sneak in. After a bit, I open the door, look around, and discover him sitting on the other side of the bunk bed, playing with the Shopkins SK keeps there, on an old rolling office bookcase of my mom’s that Saoirse insists on keeping. I don’t know if I say hello or if he just hears me come in, but Cian looks up at me with a smile, then places the toys back on the shelf where he got them. “I putting them back, Mommy,” he says…

A Quiet One

It is a gloomy day here in my tiny corner of Pennsylvania. A rainy day. A tired day. After a long weekend, a long couple of weeks, I wave the girls off to school with their dad and wait for the coffee to kick in. When it doesn’t, I drag myself up the stairs to throw myself down onto the bed that hasn’t yet been made. Cian follows me, his toys in his arms, settling down on the bedroom carpet to play. Twenty minutes of sleep, I promise myself. Just twenty minutes, and then I can tackle the Monday. Twenty minutes. I rouse to a small child dozing against my side. He senses my movement before I have a chance to open my eyes. “Wake up! Wake up, Mommy! It’s moe-ning.” I roll over to smile at him, but find myself wincing in pain instead. I pull a toy hammer out from under my side. Next, a child-sized flashlight. “My bin-ocklars, Mommy,” he says, his dimpled hand spread wide, reaching toward the blanket. I fish the binoculars out from under the covers and pass them to him…