womanly intuition

Through the years, our children have regularly received what my husband and I (not so affectionately) refer to as “grandparent toys.” You know the type. They are either full of stickers and markers which will soon be festively decorating the walls of your home, or they make sounds. The sounds are never gentle; they are just above the level of tolerability.

In the past, some such gifts were fire trucks and talking bears. Without fail, after the celebrations have ceased, and the babes have toddled off to bed, their father can be found disassembling these toys and placing a layer of packaging tape over the speakers to reduce the volume. their mother can be found placing all “art supplies” under lock and key to be enjoyed later under close adult supervision. The children have, by and large, accepted these changes without comment - one would almost believe, without notice.

This year the offending plaything seemed such a simple amusement – a small plastic rabbit which squeaks when squeezed. The sound, however, is not so simple. It is insidious. It seeks out the nerve at the base of your spine, sending your legs into fits of twitching and your psyche into retaliation mode. So, shortly after the departure of the very last guest on Christmas day, the father was absorbed in the business of dislodging the squeaker to a safe resting place inside the creature.

Half an hour later, the girl wandered into the room. She picked up the beloved critter and gave it a firm embrace. Nothing.

R: Heyyyy! What happen?

Dad:

R: (with lip in full pout and big brown eyes misting over) Dad, you killed my bunny!




Is it any wonder I got an earful of squeaks during my nightly bedtime rounds?