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Broke Wife, Big City
The real reason
I’m only having two kids
By Aprill Brandon
My baby just turned 2-years-old. My teeny, tiny, itty-bitty, little
baby is now a steak-chewin’, question-askin’, opinion-havin’ little
man.
Sigh. Ah, how time flies and all that.
Of course, any time you get to celebrate a child’s birthday, it’s a
time of joy. Perhaps a bittersweet joy but a joy nonetheless. And it
remains a joy all the way up until the moment your adorable, big-eyed
offspring looks lovingly up at you and asks you to open their giant
pile of small, impenetrable toy jails.
Seriously, have you ever had to liberate a child’s toy from modern day
packaging? It’s like the escape scene in “Shawshank Redemption” on a
slightly smaller scale. Giving birth was less frustrating and complex.
First there is the plastic. But not just any plastic. Oh, no. No, this
plastic was whipped up in the bowels of Hell and no weapon forged by
man can destroy it. That alone is bad enough. But then the toy
manufacturers decided that these pieces of demonic plastic that encase
the toy needed to be fused together in an alchemy concoction that is so
supernaturally strong it likely lists virgin blood and unicorn tears
among its unholy ingredients.
Then there are the zip ties that are usually included, because
imprisoning baby dolls and shiny cars in Satanic plastic doesn’t go far
enough. These zip ties usually fasten said toy to a piece of
superfluous cardboard like tiny choker collars and S&M cuffs. Oh,
and standard scissors can’t cut these things. They don’t even make a
dent. In fact, I’ve broken no less than three sharp knives trying to
free Barbie and G.I Joe from their respective miniature torture
chambers. As far as I can figure, a grenade might do the trick but only
like one of those really big bang-bang military grade ones.
Sometimes toy makers like to switch it up and also add random gigantic
staples that can only be removed with three bottles of wine, a steady
supply of Vicodin and a sturdy butter knife (or, better yet, a tiny
titanium crowbar).
And let us not forget the sadistic bastards who use full-on bolts to
secure the toys in their packaging. BOLTS. Those things used to fasten
steel in cars and houses and skyscrapers are also apparently needed to
keep Buttercup, the shiny, new My Little Pony, from shifting during
transportation.
What do these people think is going to happen from the time a toy
leaves the factory to the time it arrives in an eager child’s sticky
little jam hands? A tsunami of volcanic lava that floods a toxic waste
dump and as a result becomes a sentient volcano monster named Magma
Mike and the only way to defeat him is to throw tightly packaged toy
tractors and farm animals at him?
Or perhaps this is some sort of secret government plan to enforce
population control in a way that can’t be traced back to our elected
officials. Sure, you’d love to have more kids. So would I. But the
thought of having to go mano a mano with even MORE toys every
Christmas, let alone another whole birthday, is simply too much to bear.
Whatever the reasoning is, at least it’s a relief to know that all your
hard work and not insignificant hand wounds are well worth it once you
get to see the look of pure happiness on your child’s face as they play
with their great new toy. Which they do for all of seven minutes before
discarding it to go roll around in some bubble wrap.
And let us not forget that on the plus side, should the apocalypse
happen, we can all rest easy knowing that an army of Fisher-Price
Little People and Bratz dolls will survive in mint condition and
hopefully keep Magma Mike satiated once we’re all dead.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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