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.