Toy Catalogues: A New Religion
September 14th 2006 13:34
Miss Toddler has gone to bed tonight, for the first time ever, without a battle.
This alone is suspicious.
Still, I had writing to do...that attractive, sexy hero to join (my lead character, before the gossip mills start churning)...my beautiful, bold heroine needed to kick some more butt (no, not me, my book character)...plus my frazzled, worn-out, Mummy body needed to rest at my desk.
Plus, my husband and I (or I) pride myself in knowing her room is completely, utterly, 100% baby/toddler/monster proof.
This is my excuse for accepting she's gone to bed (for the first time), with no getting up, no running around the house with us trying to catch her, none of the bribery bedtime entails (chocolate, McDonalds, we'll watch Hi-5 all day until Mummy is insane, anything if you'll just go to bed!)...
So what if there's an eery, highly suspicious quiet looming over the house? So what that she hasn't got up one hundred plus times to fetch one more book, one more toy, that pink coloring-in pencil she just must have to fall asleep with...as long as she's quiet and in bed.
Yeah, right. She may be quiet, but my instinct was right the first time: quiet equals she's up to something.
I finally drag myself from the computer, where hero and heroine are kicking supernatural butt, while getting it on (this is romance, after all...its not realistic...its what women want!) - I trudge to MIss Toddler's room...
To find her in the middle of munching on a toy catalogue.
See, Miss Toddler has a 'thing' for toy catalogues. She runs to the letterbox most days to see if any have arrived (much like Mummy, my friends tell me). She peruses them for long periods of time, with the seriousness of a scholar. She takes them to bed with her (one of many things she takes to bed with her).
This, however, is the first time she's decided to make her toy catalogue something of a ritualistic sacrifice.
I tell her no, take away the rest of the soggy catalogue, and inform her they'll be no Playgroup tomorrow because of this (who am I kidding? We'll be there, 9.30am sharp).
To which she starts merrily singing the 'Tomorrow' song from Annie.
You know the one. 'Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow...'
Of course, she can only say 'Tomorrow,' but she keeps the tune almost remarkably.
I scrub the black ink that's all over her face, as if she'd first laid on the catalogue before commencing making a meal of it, then leave her in her bed, without her entourage. I've taken everything off her, except for her blankets.
I worry, for the next couple of hours (okay, I'm still worrying now), that she'll be damaged permanantly from this in some way. I mean, after all, it was a K-Mart catalogue.
This alone is suspicious.
Still, I had writing to do...that attractive, sexy hero to join (my lead character, before the gossip mills start churning)...my beautiful, bold heroine needed to kick some more butt (no, not me, my book character)...plus my frazzled, worn-out, Mummy body needed to rest at my desk.
Plus, my husband and I (or I) pride myself in knowing her room is completely, utterly, 100% baby/toddler/monster proof.
This is my excuse for accepting she's gone to bed (for the first time), with no getting up, no running around the house with us trying to catch her, none of the bribery bedtime entails (chocolate, McDonalds, we'll watch Hi-5 all day until Mummy is insane, anything if you'll just go to bed!)...
So what if there's an eery, highly suspicious quiet looming over the house? So what that she hasn't got up one hundred plus times to fetch one more book, one more toy, that pink coloring-in pencil she just must have to fall asleep with...as long as she's quiet and in bed.
Yeah, right. She may be quiet, but my instinct was right the first time: quiet equals she's up to something.
I finally drag myself from the computer, where hero and heroine are kicking supernatural butt, while getting it on (this is romance, after all...its not realistic...its what women want!) - I trudge to MIss Toddler's room...
To find her in the middle of munching on a toy catalogue.
See, Miss Toddler has a 'thing' for toy catalogues. She runs to the letterbox most days to see if any have arrived (much like Mummy, my friends tell me). She peruses them for long periods of time, with the seriousness of a scholar. She takes them to bed with her (one of many things she takes to bed with her).
This, however, is the first time she's decided to make her toy catalogue something of a ritualistic sacrifice.
I tell her no, take away the rest of the soggy catalogue, and inform her they'll be no Playgroup tomorrow because of this (who am I kidding? We'll be there, 9.30am sharp).
To which she starts merrily singing the 'Tomorrow' song from Annie.
You know the one. 'Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow...'
Of course, she can only say 'Tomorrow,' but she keeps the tune almost remarkably.
I scrub the black ink that's all over her face, as if she'd first laid on the catalogue before commencing making a meal of it, then leave her in her bed, without her entourage. I've taken everything off her, except for her blankets.
I worry, for the next couple of hours (okay, I'm still worrying now), that she'll be damaged permanantly from this in some way. I mean, after all, it was a K-Mart catalogue.
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Comment by KoreanLover
I mean, after all, it was a K-Mart catalogue.
Great line.
Comment by K-Dog
Comment by K-Dog