Bouncy Ball GPS……

I took the girls to what I consider one of the better toy stores around. The staff are extremely a) knowledgeable about their products and b) helpful. They perform magic tricks for the kids, they explain and demonstrate how the toys work and are known for their unique gift wrapping.

It is not uncommon to walk into Family & Co. and simply state (Soup Nazi style) the sex of the child and age, before being handed an armful of age appropriate toys the recipient will love.

Today, I asked, “girl, age seven?” and the service rep asked me a couple of simple questions, including, “Do you know this girl?” Indeed I do. She is my daughter and she’s standing next to me.

It felt odd to be asking a perfect stranger what I should be buying for Hanna for her birthday but I love getting another person’s perspective, some insight into what toys/crafts kids her age are interested in to see if I am completely off the mark.

My personal shopper didn’t disappoint and the girls were oblivious to my spree as they were mesmerized by the toy train and the juggling act going on all around them.

I had explained this was a “looking” only trip and that there would be no tolerance for begging, trying to break a toy leaving it somewhat usable but forcing me to pay for it or clinging to the doorframe to remain in the store a little longer. We agreed to these terms and they negotiated permission to identify a toy they would love to one day own and whisper a secret wish to Santa.

They did ask in their most pathetic “Mommy if you love us at all” voices, will you buy us each a $.49 rubber ball? Done.

On our return home, the girls planned rubber ball games, named them “Ogo” and “Coco” and discussed all of the fun the four of them would have together.

We ventured outside with Ogo and Coco the second the van doors were reefed open by two very enthusiastic bouncers. Sadly after Coco’s second hurling, he had vanished.

Re-enacting the toss was a bit like asking an alzheimer’s patient what they ate for breakfast nine months, two days ago.

I scoured the one acre property for a camouflaged ball the size of a dime and came up empty.

Recognizing the price tag of $.49 was appropriate for a toy whose usefulness would only last fifteen seconds, granted the idea of adding a GPS tracking device would increase that half dollar investment significantly, but ask yourself, how much is your time worth? If two hours in, you’re kneeling under peony bushes wondering if you are going to grab a hold of the head of a snake or rise victorious with our dear friend Coco, wouldn’t you rather pay a little more to be sure that ball is exactly where it should be?

Ellie hovered over my shoulder trying to help and asked me questions to keep my brain sharp.

Ellie: Mama, why is it called “Girl Cheese?” Can’t boys eat it?

“It’s called Grill cheese Ellie!” Hanna shouts furiously at her sister. Transference. She’s angry at Coco’s carefree ways, but taking it out on Ellie.

Hanna: It should be called, “shred cheese,” she stormed off in a huff.

Ellie: Mommy look! Ogo is magnetical!

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *