Wednesday, July 27, 2011

By the Hammer Balls of Thor

Just when I think the little one has got this thing wired she proves to me that there are still a few areas that need refinement. Like yesterday morning when I was getting ready for what was going to be a very busy day and I suggested that she play quietly with a toy from her special basket until it was time for us to leave. While I nipped back to the bedroom to attempt to erase my entire face and draw it back in, with everything in the right places this time, she slipped back to the master bathroom and sat down 2 feet from me with the game we call, to Rick's horror, "Hammer Balls".

You know this one. You line up the garishly colored plastic balls (wooden balls, I guess, if you're one of those parents and if you are you can stop reading my blog now) at the top of the box and then smash them with a mallet until they drop into a short maze, roll out of the box and then get lost under the piano. And here they will stay until the movers roll back the piano and then squeal like a lady. Or maybe that only happens when the movers roll back the refrigerator and find the place where your cats have been chasing their creepily realistic stuffed baby mice toys for 2 years.

It took me 10 minutes to convince that mover that he wasn't looking at a pile of 75 dead mice babies. It probably would have sped things up a lot if I had started with, "If this was a real dead mouse baby would I put it in my mouth like this?"

In any event, the instant Mae's tiny plastic hammer made instant nerve jangling contact with its target it was like a scene from a war movie where our hero has been home for about a week and is about to enjoy a delicious breakfast of grapefruit and someone shuts the refrigerator door a little too aggressively and our hero kills that person with his grapefruit spoon. Thankfully the only instrument within my reach was an eyelash curler so the worst I could have done was deliver some incredibly tiny pinches. After I was peeled off of the ceiling I made sure Mae understood that one of the things we never do is play hammer balls within 10 feet of Mommy's room if the door is closed. Which, after a year here really should have been a given.

It reminded me of when a very dear friend whom I will call "Lisa" (hi, Lisa!) brought Mae a toy we call the "Pop Me Popper" when the kids are awake and "That &#@*ing Pop Me Popper" when the kids are asleep. You know the one. Its a plastic dome filled with plastic marbles that rides on a set of wheels when propelled across the floor by its long handle. It seems innocent enough until it gets going and you realize that the when the wheels are engaged the devil's hand is permitted to reach into the dome and start pinging those marbles around at warp speed creating a thundering cacophony of spine melting mini-crashes. I handed it right back to her and said, in my most gracious tone, "Come on! I have four kids now. You can't possibly imagine that I haven't thrown away hundreds of these already. My mom sends me a gross of them every quarter."

Because, when you're a certain kind of person, you get dozens of Pop Me Poppers every time you add a child to your family. That toy only exists to be gifted to that certain kind of person. Same with hammer balls. Which explains why we have 10 sets of them. Had 10 sets of them. We have 9 now.


  1. I still haven't found anyone to take the &#!*ing Pop Me Popper. Still looking, hope springs eternal and all that...and laughing like crazy at this post and so very glad you've finally (to your grateful audience) decided that blogging is a good and worthy endeavor. Hi rightbackatcha :)

  2. I remember my brother once telling me lovingly that he'd thrown a similarly delightful gift we gave to one of his (four) children out the car window. I can't remember What it was, but I've since been more careful about the toys I've purchased as gifts!

  3. So I'm an email acquaintance of Lisa's -- she clued me in to your blog, which is highly, highly entertaining. I have a similar issue with the faux mice. I've re-purchased those tiny baby mice so many times, there must be dozens of them SOMEWHERE in this house, but hell if I know where they are.