Beware the Babydoll Stroller Trap: "borrowing" toys at the playground

Big debate on the old parkslopeparents listserv this week about kids "borrowing" other kids' toys at the playground. I feel like the use of quotation marks in this instance is kind of aggravating, a way of not saying what the poster wants to say outright which is, "stealing." So let's dispense with them altogether and make the question on the table: what the hell do you do when you take your kid to the playground with some toys and other kids you don't know grab them away and play with them, without involving your kid?

a lot of people posted saying, "You are not alone. This happens to me all the time and hordes of toy-crazed children spring upon my kids' precious possessions, tearing pages in books, spilling all the bubbles out of the bottle, slurping juice boxes dry and scattering Goldfish to the wind. I am at my wit's end! I just want to enjoy a peaceful afternoon with my children!"

If you think you're going to enjoy a peaceful afternoon at the playground, well, that's already your first mistake.

A lot of other people wrote, saying, "I'm the bumbling mom who never remembers to bring toys or snacks and so its usually my kids who are doing the borrowing and though I do try to make sure they ask permission first, it is a public space and we are happy to offer up our own booty for the common good."

Easy for you to say, bumbling mom, you've already said you never bring jack.

I am neither the bumbling mom type or the I-just-want-to-enjoy-this-precious-time-with-my-kids type (I have more than enough precious time to go around). I do usually bring something in our bag, some Avatar figure from McDonald Happy Meals, a pail, maybe a soccer ball if I eel super motivated, but thankfully, because our stuff is so sub-par and boring, no one ever seems to want to play with it. I tell my kids that if they leave the stuff out, someone is totally going to snatch it away and since I have enough to do taking care of them, I can't serve as a Bounty Hunter to boot. This is particularly an important lesson for Sec, who thinks there is an invisible coterie of butlers following her around to pick up whatever food and toys and clothing items she drops to the ground as she goes through the world with nary a care.

Once, in the spring, she had this BRAND-NEW rubber dragon she'd earned as a reward for some activity normal children do without the aid of bribes, like sleeping or walking or eating dinner, and she brought it to the playground where she promptly dropped it and it was, of course, immediately re-possessed by some other dragon-loving child. She was so terrifically distraught that Primo and I both helped her scour the playground for a good 15 minutes but it was long gone. She still talks about losing the dragon, about once a week. She'll wax rhapsodic: "Remember that red rubber dragon I loved so very much? And how I brought it to the playground and it was lost FOREVER???" Maybe next time, she won't make the same mistake. I mean, probably she will, but we can only hope. I don't really fault the kid who grabbed it. Its New York City and there are lots of instances of treasure trash left abandoned in public places.

If the item is something large and kind of expensive, like a scooter or a bike, I stash it way in a corner and keep an eye on it and woe betide the kid that tries to take that shit without asking. I don't have the disposable income to replae a scooter or a bike, even the second-hand variety, so unless I've got your mom's phone number, you won't be borrowing that stuff anytime soon.

But, I'd like to point out, what's good for the goose is good for the gander and I never let my kids play with other people's toys without asking. We call that getting all Grabby Grabberson in our house and I can't stand it. What are we, a bunch of animals here? Sharing is an important skill but so is impulse control and learning not to act like Conan the Barbarian. Unless Sec or Primo can get a verbal OK from the owner, they leave the tempting stuff where it is. That's private property, people.

In general though, I find my kids have outgrown this problem and its really only an issue for the 1-3 year old set. I remember those days pretty clearly and I will say this:

BEWARE THE BABYDOLL STROLLER TRAP

Unless you are willing to sustain a public nervous breakdown, never, ever, EVER bring a babydoll stroller to a toddler playground. Do not do it. I don't care HOW much your 2 year-old wants to push that stroller in the great outdoors. I don't care how much she cries or begs or pleads. Trying to keep the peace around a babydoll stroller in a Tot Lot is a job much too big for most of us mortals. Those toddlers are DERANGED for baby doll strollers: doesn't matter if they are girls or boys, doesn't matter what condition the stroller is it. Could have a wheel missing and the seat ripped out, if that thing will move when you push it, they will go bananas and will stop at nothing to get their chubby little fists around the handlebars. Even if your child keeps a tight hold of it, it will not matter. Throngs of covetous toddlers, probably with much better strollers of their own at home or possibly even in their real stroller baskets, will lay hands on the stroller, will wrestle your child's fingers off, will cry and scream and carry on until either they get a turn or their caregiver carts them away for a nap. If you do force your tot to give them a turn, you can believe her temper tantrum will match the one they were heating up to have. There is no solution which doesn't involve drinking a box of wine when you get home. Just don't do it. Ever. If no one brought babydoll strollers, imagine how peaceful the toddler playgrounds would be.

That's what I've got to say on the subject. Feel free to spread the word about the No BabyDoll Stroller Iniative. Circulate a petition. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us, and the world can live as one.

Petite Feet

Last fall, I signed Sec up for ballet class. I thought because she likes wearing tutus and the color pink and because she's a prima donna, she would enjoy it. It is probably not terribly surprising that she only lasted one class. My kids, in general, are allergic to extra curriculars, a fact which has been good to my bank account but may not be so good in ten years when it's time to apply to college. In any event, Sec wasn't a huge fan of the structure, discipline and rigor which is typically a part of ballet study. She's an exuberant free spirit and I couldn't blame her. Ballet's not for everyone.

Enter Petite Feet.

Liz Vacco, a fantastic dancer-actor- dance teacher who happens to be amazing with kids, has made a dance DVD for little ballerinas ages 2-5, called Petite Feet and since we got it a few weeks ago, Sec has been thoroughly engrossed. I knew the DVD would be great because Primo worked with Liz when he helped workshop that super-cool avant-guard Pinocchio production last year (she transformed to a captivating Blue Fairy via a blue tutu on her head). It's a totally relaxed approach to ballet with heavy emphasis on storytelling and imagination and less focus on perfect form and technique -- making it a great introduction for little ones. You've still got your leotards and ballet skirts and you hear the proper ballet terms and count in French (among other languages) but what Liz brings to the mix is her unique ability as a performer to engage kids with storytelling. All the exercises are conducted in the context of an interactive story (Quick! Fly through the air to escape! Now crawl through the mud!) or a kid-friendly song. It helps that the piano accompaniment is provided by a man in a full-body walrus suit.

Sec has watched the video half a dozen times, even dusting off her old Danskin pink leotard and flouncy skirt. She got enthused enough about the whole thing that she exclaimed. "I want to try ballet class again Mommy!"

Of course, a minute later she added' "Maybe. I don't know. I'll think about it."

Still, that's progress.

Don't Dirty the Drop Cloth

In front of this store by my house, there's a bin with lovely rolls of oil cloth material sticking out. It basically looks like the plastic tablecloths my grandmother buys from the 99 cent store except the floral print is more retro. My mommy friend who has great taste pointed out that it would make a nice drop cloth to spread over the living room floor for when the kids do art projects -- you know, to protect the floor. This appealed to me because as it is, I just tell the kids, "Forget it! Put away the paints! That's too messy!"and basically squelch their creative instincts in favor of not ruining my ten year-old lime green sofa from the Bloomingdales warehouse. So a few days ago, I popped into the store and asked how much the oil cloth was.

"$9.99," she said.

"Hmmmn, " I mused, "that's more than I thought but maybe worth it to give the kids the gift of art."

"$9.99?" I repeated, "For like, a good-sized piece?"

"Per yard," she clarified.

I tried not to choke on my gall. It was difficult but I made a valiant attempt because sputtering out loud at the exorbitant price of drop cloths is the fastest way to become your 80 year-old Italian grandmother.

I'm no expert but I figured I'd need at least 3 yards or so to make a decent-sized drop cloth. That would put my drop cloth cost at an outrageous $30. I don't spend that much on real tablecloths. I don't spend that much on my kids' shoes. I - not exaggerating -- did not spend that much on my coffee table. I spent $19.99 on it, thanks very much Ikea, you rock. Why then, would I spend nearly double the amount on a plastic sheet to cover the piece of junk coffee table?

I realized that if I did, indeed, buy the pricey drop cloth, I'd feel compelled to protect it. So I'd have to get another drop cloth to protect the fancy drop cloth. I could just see myself yelling at the kids, " DAMNIT! I TOLD YOU NOT TO DROP PAINT ON THE DROP CLOTH! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT COST?"

It seemed a recipe for disaster.

"So do you want it?" the saleslady asked me.

"No thanks," I said.

I've decided the most cost-effective thing I can do is just tell the kids to paint right on the coffee table and when it gets ruined, we'll buy a new one. And maybe when I go to Ikea to get my replacement coffee table, I'll buy an extra one of those giganto blue bags that cost like $.50. Slit that baby up the sides and you know what you've got, don't you?

Sound the alarm! She's napping!

When my kids nap, I panic. And for good reason, I might add. My kids don't nap, they don't even go to sleep at night without a fight to the death. The last time Primo went to bed without a long, drawn-out ordeal, he had appendicitis. The fact that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow was, in fact, the deciding factor for us to cancel out trip to Iceland and bring him to the ER. The lower-left abdominal pain didn’t really convince me but the narcolepsy did. I knew something was seriously amiss.

Yesterday, we were tooling about in our apartment in the afternoon and while Primo read How to Train Your Dragon on the couch, and I checked my email, Sec grew suspiciously quiet. After a few minutes, I glanced over and saw her face down on the couch, arms dangling off the side like a drunk. I gasped. Then I strode over quickly and yelled, “SEC!”

She grumbled and turned her face to the other side. This was the real deal, not a Sleeping Beauty game. I dialed David.

“She’s asleep.”

“Who?”

“Your daughter.”

I commonly refer to the kids as belonging only to David when they are either terrifically bad, terrifically good or entering some kind of distress.

“Shit,” David groaned, “Wake her up, quick!”

Ever since our kids dropped their nap, in Sec’s case as the ripe old age of 2.5, our rule has been to ALWAYS let sleeping children lie, unless they are sleeping in the daytime in which case, NEVER let them lie. Wake them, immediately, and forcefully, or else we will pay for the brief afternoon reprieve dearly, so dearly, at nightfall. But, there is a caveat: should the children be sick, they are allowed to nap.

“I don’t know,” I said to David, “I think she might be sick.”

I’d touched her forehead and felt that not-quite-a-fever-but-a-bit-more-than-flushed temperature. She had no other symptoms but the nap was compelling enough to make me clear our schedule for last night. (Yes, David and I DO stuff sometimes, don’t act surprised that we have a life.)

Sure enough, an hour later, the kid was running a 101 fever, and that was based on those shitty temporal lobe thermometers which are about as accurate as reading a temperature as I am telling time by the position of the sun. Baby was burning up. I let her sleep over an hour before she got hot enough that I woke her for some Tylenol. And I’ve been watching Snow White on repeat play ever since. Later we’ll talk about the fascinating shit I discovered from repeat watching this 1930s gem. It’s a little like watching the movie high on shrooms: you start to see crazy shit embedded in it. That’s for another day.

Let me end this post with a public service announcement in the vein of all those terrifying commercials about vaccinating your kids against the whooping cough (which you should totally do, by the way, seriously, they are right, though awful):

"Sometimes your child’s afternoon nap isn’t just a sweet little snooze but a cause for panic and alarm. Be on guard. Treat the nap with the suspicion it deserves. Brought to you by A Mom Amok."

Ease my troubles, that's what you do

It is my first week - post vacation -- with the kids on my hands full time. Wait, let me amend that -- it is my first day having the kids and already, I need a heavy dose of Calgon. One kid or the other might be ok but put them both together and I'm desperate for R and R, the which, incidentally, I supposedly just concluded.

There is only one thing that can soothe my frazzled nerves. OK, one thing besides a box of wine. I need to be worked over. My muscles, I mean. Massage - my modest nirvana. My mother-in-law, the kind, generous woman that she is, usually sends me a gift certificate for Christmas for Bliss spa and I save the thing all year, treasuring the joy that is yet to be mine, til I can stand it no longer and breathlessly book the appointment for an hour-long rub-down. But this year, extenuating circumstances that involve trading my Iceland getaway in for an emergency appendectomy, prompted me to use my massage up early, and I don't think I can wait til 2012 for another taste of happiness. But, instead of heading back to the super-fancy, uptown-priced, high-design Bliss, I'm going to all-about-you-and those-aching-Mommy-muscles Full Breath Massage.

Doesn't hurt that my friend David Lobenstine is the brains (and brawn) behind the operation. And that he has magic hands. And offers a sliding scale. Where, I ask you, can you get a delicious, hour-long, restorative massage for $100?

He is beloved by the mamas and does a ton of pre-natal massage. Because, really, is there any time a gal deserves to be lavished with the gift of human touch more than when she's carrying a basketball inside her gut? If there are two things I could've changed about my pregnancies, it would be
1. Buy the goddamned maternity pillow for crying our loud.
2. Get monthly pre-natal massage.

I think I would've still won the martyr award, even with those luxuries.

Its such a little thing but it goes so far.

Whether you're aching from your pregnancy, or aching from carrying your baby/ toddler/ preschooler around, or just aching from the crushing weight of being man, park your aching ass on that massage table and let David work his magic. You may encounter my aching ass there, who knows?

Hunter

In North Carolina, my daughter learned how to catch animals and eat them. Sea creatures, primarily. She had an absolute LARK of a time fishing for blue crabs, watching us shake them into our coooler of doom, where they would freeze to death, and then asking when she could slurp them up. The next day, we did, indeed, steam the suckers and she cracked off their legs and sucked them into her gullet. Eating crabs has never seemed so violent. Then it was all about the oysters.

"I'm going to crack open their shells and slurp them up!" She could hardly wait.

While playing on the beach, she found a ton f teeny tiny crbas, each the size of a quarter, which she promptly captured for a later meal. When we told her they were too small to eat, she decided the next best thing would be to keep them as a pet. And how she loved those dwarf crabs, for a whole fifteen to twenty minutes.

I am a little concerned that her hunting zeal with continue now that we're back in the Big Apple. I half expect her to come to me with a dead rat or cockroach that she'd like to broil for supper. Its tough to acclimate to city living again after the great outdoors.

We're outta here

Sorry for the radio silence in this tiny corner of the blogosphere folks but I've been ON VACATION! Lounging around on the beach and drinking my body weight in sweet tea -the kind of life I have always been destined for. We're enjoying all that the Outer Banks has to offer with David's family and it's been a rollicking good time. We caught crabs (the kind you eat, not the kind you call your past sexual partners about). We slurped oysters on the half shell and about ten tons of pulled pork on white rolls. And we chillaxed at the pool, as much as one can chilllax while caring for two children who only half know how to swim. Frankly, who has the time to blog when there's so much vacationing on the agenda?
But all good things come to an end and I'll be back shortly. Until then, Happy August!