Daddy Daze » Toddlers

Toy of the Week: Magnetic tile building set

Dave — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 01:24:27 +0000

Buying toys for kids is hit-or-miss. Often times you’ll labor over a decision to buy. “Will she really like this? Is it worth fifty bucks? OH MY GOD DID I JUST CONSIDER SPENDING FIFTY BUCKS ON A TOY FOR THAT INGRATE?”

Others you toss down onto the floor in hopes that it’ll keep their pie holes sealed long enough to get dinner on the table.

Then there are those magical toys with near-hypnotic powers. They keep the kids engaged — appropriately engaged, not assaulting each other — for an hour or more. The next day, they’re still playing with it. And the next day. It’s a miracle, and in that moment you don’t care how much the damn thing cost.

This magnetic tile building set is one of those toys.

We “borrowed” this set from my wife’s classroom one weekend and the kids loved it. Convinced that it was the novelty that had them enthralled, we kept it around for a week. Their interest never waned.

My son, 5, builds all kinds of interesting and creative structures: Towers, castles, cubes, pyramids, houses for this action figures. My daughter, 6, builds by color and shape. They play cooperatively with them and extend the fun beyond simple construction. They hid things inside, knock them down and set up whole “towns” of brightly colored, plastic homes.

This thing meets all of my criteria: 1.) There’s no definite end, so play can go on and on; 2.) It can grow with the child, staying appropriate as their interests and skills change; 3.) it’s damn hard to break.

Yeah, a set is fifty bucks. But the kids will play with it for a long, long time, you can work lessons into it and finally, isn’t it worth it to go 60 minutes without playing referee?

Previous entries

Mommy’s way vs. Daddy’s way

Dave — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 23:31:50 +0000

Shortly before Grace was born, we attended “parenting prep” classes at the hospital. When the nurse wasn’t showing us just how pliable my wife’s vagina could be, she was offering practical advice. The most useful, it turned out, was directed toward the future moms.

“Moms, don’t pay attention to the way Dad does things.”

Now let me make it very clear that this is NOT one of those “silly fumbling Daddy just can’t get the poopy diaper right” deals that seems to pass as comedy these days. I detest that nonsense and, frankly, find it insulting. However, it is true that my wife and I do certain things differently. For example:

• I have washed my son off with the sprayer in the kitchen sink. I’m pretty sure my wife has not.
• I told Grace that sticking raspberries on the ends of her fingers is “funny.” I think “rude” was the word my wife used.

• I’ve noted that I think it’s a riot when Grace’s poo-poo “looks like tortellini,” and encourage her to compare it to other nouns in her world: Animals, toys, even Dora the Explorer.

The biggest discrepancy is hair. I suck at girl hair. I can pull it up into some semblance of a ponytail, but there are always wispy stragglers waving about her face. I defend my “daddy-do,” as it’s called, as “natural-looking.”

My wife, on the other hand, brushes that mop until it gleams and manages to get all of Grace’s hair into the elastic through what I suspect is a miracle. Plus, once up, her hair stays in place all day. It’s really something to see.

Dress is another issue. William has a T-shirt that I absolutely love to put on him. It says “For Sale: $75 or best offer.” It’s a hit at story hour and really shocks the blue hairs at the grocery store. My preferred outfit for Grace is a New England Patriots jersey and some jeans. My wife prefers to, “dress her like a girl.” She is cute in a dress, but does she really need to look like Holly Hobby every day?

Finally, let’s talk about the nighttime routine. I admit that I’m a sucker. Our routine is, roughly:
• jammies
• teeth
• books
• kiss and hug
• bed

Grace is extremely skilled at suckering me into “just one more book.” She blinks those little Bambi eyes and next thing I know we’re on book number seven. I emerge from the room wiped, and my wife is smirking on the couch. “How many books did you read tonight, dear?”

“Three,” I say.

“Liar,” she says. “You’re a sucker.”

Yeah, I probably am. But the way I figure it, that makes up for everything else.

Noogie and Sally C Cups

Dave — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 00:27:38 +0000

The following is a throwback post from my days blogging for Parenting Magazine, re-published here for posterity’s sake. And because it’s funny.

The kids have invented a game called The Door Game. It goes like this:

Grace goes into her bedroom and closes the door while William stands in the hall on the opposite side. Then Grace throws the door open. William laughs hysterically and then pulls it shut, which causes Gracie to laugh hysterically. She then throws the door open again just as William runs out of the way.

The game usually ends with purple fingers and/or tender feet that have been bashed by the door. Despite these deterrents, as well as my own stern-voiced requests to end The Door Game once and for all, they continue to play.

Hanging from the doorknob is a pitiful rabbit holding what is essentially an arch of piano wire over its head like a mafia hitman. Since William can’t reach the doorknob, he uses the rabbit to shut the door. Being a highly intelligent problem-solver, I deduced that removing the rabbit would end The Door Game.

I slipped it off of the doorknob.

“No,” Grace said. “That’s Noogie’s rabbit!”

“What?” I said.

“That rabbit belongs to Noogie, not you! You put it back!” She was yelling and angry. “He’s right there and put his rabbit back.”

“Right where?” I said.

“There,” she said, pointing to the toddler-sized chenille easy chair in her room. The empty toddler-sized chenille easy chair.

Uh-oh.

“Is he there now?” I said.

“Well he’s not there right now,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, and left to find my wife.

“Are you aware of ‘Noogie?’” I said.

“What’s Noogie?”

“I think Grace has an imaginary friend.”

“Oh?”

I relayed the story, including the part about my impressive problem-solving skills, and asked if I should locate a child psychologist right then, or wait until morning. My wife, who is the rational one (and who has a master’s degree in early childhood education), assured me that it’s normal for 3-year-olds to have imaginary friends.

“But why ‘Noogie’?” I said. “I mean, it’s such a ridiculous word … ‘Noogie.’ What does that even mean? How’d she come up with that?”

“Who knows,” she said. “Kids like to make words up.”

Well that’s true. When my sister and I were very young, we spent our afternoons tormenting our mother while dad worked. She tried to keep us “on task” as often as possible, having us “help” with the dishes, color, use Play-Doh or make crafts like paper bag hand puppets, which we used to put on little shows. We even had recurring characters, including the infamous Sally See Comps.

I don’t remember who came up with the name but, like Grace, we were young enough to enjoy nonsensical words. My sister and I would make our own ornately decorated Sally See Comps puppets to be featured in our shows. For some reason, my mother hated Sally and demanded that we either change her name or stop making her altogether. This only ramped up Sally’s Awesomeness Level, and most of her shows revolved around the loud repetition of her name.

Years later we learned that mom thought we were saying “Sally C Cups.” I wish I could lay claim to such wit as a 6-year-old, but I’m afraid I can’t. To this day, I still snicker whenever I see a paper bag.

Maybe “Noogie” isn’t so bad.

Floor d’Oeuvres

Dave — Wed, 16 Sep 2009 01:55:09 +0000

The following is a throwback post from my days blogging for Parenting Magazine, re-published here for posterity’s sake.

Earlier today, I was playing “Pretty, Pretty Princess” on the floor with Gracie (I was TOTALLY winning. I had two earrings, a necklace and a ring. She only had two necklaces) when William walked into the room, chewing.

“What is William eating?” I called.

“He’s eating something?” my wife answered from another room.

“Yeah,” I said. “He just walked in here chewing.”

“What does he have?”

“Don’t know,” I said, inspecting his empty mouth. “It’s gone now.”

No worries. It was just what we’ve come to call Floor d’Oeuvres.

While Grace was pretty good at finding Floor d’Oeuvres in her younger days, William is a master. Like a shark that can detect a single drop of blood within the vast ocean, this kid can hear a Cheerio hit the floor from clear across the house. He immediately drops what he’s doing and zooms towards the wayward treat as quickly as his short, stubby legs will carry him.

Here’s an example. William and his mother were at the beach earlier in the week. At one point, she noticed that he had a warm, oily, sand-covered corner of cheese.He heard CHEESE hit SAND. This kid’s got a career in international espionage ahead of him.

So what happened to it? “I don’t know what ended up happening to the cheese,” my wife said. So if the whole spying thing doesn’t work out, he’ll at least be able to win a few bar bets.