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Tiny Toys Are Trying To Ruin My Life.

 

Please don't kill me.

Tiny Toys Will Be The Death Of Me, they will.

Two possible scenarios come to mind.

I will either: A) accidentally step down hard on a Squinkie bubble, frightening myself and causing me to lurch backwards into an Aikido-Roll-Of-Death out the living room window and onto the street below, or B) slowly perish from the extreme exhaustion of searching every nook and cranny of my home for miniature lightsabers, day after day in an endless loop of victory (YAY, we found Luke’s blue Jedi sword!), followed by the inevitable loss and recrimination (Mother, where did you put Luke’s blue Jedi sword?).

Perish, I tell you.

When did my children become obsessed with tiny toys? And why does every tiny toy person come with even tinier accessories, including but not limited to weaponry, detachable shoes, microscopic baby bottles, and lentil-sized passports?

And those lightsabers. Oh God, the lightsabers. As slender as a toothpick, and just translucent enough to blend in with any shade of carpet or floor covering, it is also fun and desirable enough to cause extreme distress when it goes missing. Which it will. Within seconds of your child having pried it out of the tiny plastic hand his parents so lovingly Krazy Glued it into. Oh yes, we Krazy Glue.

But let me tell you what I learned. Nothing intrigues a child more than a toy whose accessories have been attached through the judicious use of contact cement. Somehow they know. The toy just doesn’t feel right. It’s wearing matching shoes. Its hair is on tightly. It’s wearing its sunglasses, and they don’t even seem to be loose or in danger of going missing or anything.

Don’t bother. Your child also has a collection of tiny screwdrivers that he can use to alter all the toys so that after he gets the accessories off for once and for all, they will never again be able to properly hold those accessories, and they will then go missing even faster.

Something That Has Happened To Me Every Day For The Last Month:

Me: (Sweaty from crawling around on the floor for twenty minutes while dinner burns and the baby cries from lack of maternal attention. Sweaty but jubilant, like Gollum clutching the One Ring.) Here you go! Whew! I found the tiny saw!

My child: Thank you! Oh my tiny saw! Thank you! (puts it in the hand of his tiny lumberjack)

3.2 seconds pass.

My child: WHERE DID MY SAW GO?! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?!

If things don’t change soon, I am going to lose my hair from the search for My Little Pony Newborn Cutie’s birthday cake, and I happen to like my hair just where it is. No! Unacceptable! I mean, yes, of course I am the one who buys these toys, thus enabling this insanity, but never mind that! NO MORE. No more Mrs-Toy-Locating-Patsy. The hammer is coming down. I mean, it’s a mini-hammer, but it is COMING DOWN HARD. My heart has grown cold, like the (adorable!) tiny executioner in the photograph, with his (charming little!) battle axe.

It is at this point that I ask myself who I am actually buying these tiny things for. And then I ignore that question and begin searching for my child’s quarter inch long toy stethoscope that fell into the dishwasher by accident.

pause.

What?!

(pause)

He lost it! He’s crying!

(pause)

You don’t understand, though. It completes the set!

(And…crickets)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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