My girls have the week off due to a mid-winter break. Needless to say it's hard for me to concentrate on my book, but they have provided me with some great material for my new blog. I don't bother picking up the toy carnage left in their wake anymore. They know that when they are finished playing crash test baby that it needs to be put away. Crash test baby straps herself into her stroller, and then launches like a fighter jet off an aircraft carrier head first into whatever gets in her way: door jam, kitchen island, fridge, cat, and occasionally me if I'm not paying attention to launch codes. The girls squeal in delight as crash test baby survives another collision—is that bad? I figure it's not as bad as when they used to play Suicide Barbie.
Suicide Barbie often takes herself to the top of "lover's leap" (our foyer balcony) and hurls her broken hearted self over the edge to splat on the hardwood below. Sometimes Ken joins her in her foolhardy leap, a romantic gesture I suppose, and their plastic parts wind up in a twisted contorted lovers lump in the floor. Sometimes the barbies are clothed, sometimes they are naked. Once Barbie was found dangling in the foyer, naked, swinging by her neck from a doggie leash. It was like a little Barbie crime scene. Apparently, the girls had moved on to other forms of toy torture, and it was left up to me to give Barbie a proper funeral. Again, is that bad?
Suicide Barbie often takes herself to the top of "lover's leap" (our foyer balcony) and hurls her broken hearted self over the edge to splat on the hardwood below. Sometimes Ken joins her in her foolhardy leap, a romantic gesture I suppose, and their plastic parts wind up in a twisted contorted lovers lump in the floor. Sometimes the barbies are clothed, sometimes they are naked. Once Barbie was found dangling in the foyer, naked, swinging by her neck from a doggie leash. It was like a little Barbie crime scene. Apparently, the girls had moved on to other forms of toy torture, and it was left up to me to give Barbie a proper funeral. Again, is that bad?
I didn't know anyone growing up who didn't have a Magic 8 Ball, and my girls are no exception. I think, however, that they misunderstand the proper use of the thing. Magic 8 Ball is supposed to be stored in a safe place until you have to know whether you will marry your true love, Joe Jonas, one day. Then you respectfully and oh so carefully take your Magic 8 Ball from it's specially chosen location, hold it gently in your hands, and reverently ask your question, right? Well when Samantha came down the stairs last night with a big red welt on her forehead, Ruth Ann fessed up that she had "accidentally" hit Sam in the head with the Magic 8 Ball. How do you get hit in the head with a Magic 8 Ball?! I just shook my head and giggled. Somewhere from the other room, Sam was singing softly...if only I had a brain.
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