Masters of the Marketing Universe

Those folks at Fisher Price know how to market their wares.

Over the years, we have acquired a hefty load of Fisher Price toys. At one time we owned the plane, the school bus, the ark, the nativity scene, and three - yes, three! - barns.

Today I trash picked the castle.

Sometimes I amaze even myself. I have described myself as a minimalist. Truthfully, I would now count myself among the minimalist-wannabes. While I continue to fight the good fight against all things plastic, I’ve lost a lot of ground of late. My last major purge was three years ago. Oh, what a glorious day it was! If you could have witnessed the glee with which I unloaded a plethora of little used toys at the local Goodwill! Truly I felt lighter as I drove away. We got rid of an entire truckload of bikes, games, and toys, including a slew of Fisher Price items.

All of this makes my actions earlier today all the more perplexing.

The plot only thickens when I examine precisely why I ditched most of the Fisher Price collection. While I am a devotee of the "less is more" mentality, I don’t get rid of stuff we actually use. See, there’s been one consistent problem with these Fisher Price toys – my kids do not play with them.

The airplane saw more mileage than the other items. One of the boys showed a fleeting interest in the school bus. The nativity was difficult to hold together – unlike its counterparts, it’s made of cardboard and flimsy at best. The ark was so cool – so cool that it made the cut and is still safely ensconced in our attic – but in reality it sat in dry dock.

As to the story of the three farms – well, that’s a little complicated. I bought barn #1 at a yard sale. Who came up with this design, I don’t know. You could move the animals in, but you really couldn’t get them out short of picking up the whole edifice and shaking hard. So barn #1 sat. Barn # 2- different yard sale, different design. It opened! It was nifty! No one played with it! Barn #3 – a gift from a generous relative unaware of barns 1 and 2. It, too, saw very little action.

My experience with Fisher Price toys is that I spend all my time snagging stray sheep out from under the couch or pilots and passengers from under beds. Lots of picking up – little playing time. A bad ratio.

I was over at a friend’s house the other day. There I spied the Fisher Price castle. Two words for this vintage baby: Cool Ness! Oh my goodness, I wanted that castle. As for John – well, he was flat mesmerized.

This afternoon I was cruising through the neighborhood late for a very important date, and there it was on the side of the road – a Fisher Price castle! I screeched to a halt and snatched it up.

Later I got a good, hard look at it. Gently used it was not - cracked, sagging, the tower bordering on moldy, badly in need of an Extreme Makeover, Castle Edition. Alas, I pondered a little too long, and John spied the object of my affection .

“My castle,” he cried.>It is now sitting on my couch housing a brace of Lego guys.

The castle came with no figures, so the next logical step was to check Ebay for knights and dragons and horses. They have a gracious plenty, and they go for a pretty penny. The king and queen alone will set you back ten bucks plus shipping. They had a few complete sets available, and I found myself torn. Me, the minimalist!

The cheapest set went for $50.00 plus a whopping $15.00 for shipping. This for something I will be delighted to unload at Goodwill in the not too distant future?

Nothing short of a battle ensued.

Remember Madame Blueberry, I remind myself. Happiness does not wait at the Stuffmart! You really don’t need more stuff!

So cool, so very cool!

They’ll never play with it!

This time will be different!

You’re nuts!

Am not!

Are too!

Hope is triumphing over experience which is a long-winded and cliched-ridden way of saying I am a sucker! If Fisher Price can sell a zillion piece set to someone who has owned - and not enjoyed! - most of their zillion piece sets, then, truly, they could sell ice cubes to an Eskimo.

Fisher Price – Masters of the Marketing Universe.

A Sight I Don't Often See Anymore . . .

And one that I surely don't miss one little bit!

So Long Tween - Hello Teen

Tim got out of bed at midnight to mark a milestone for him and for us.

Thirteen!!!

Small Successes

Join the women of Faith and Family as we encourage one another. Here are a few highlights from our week:

1. I spent most of Tuesday night comforting a sick Ainsley. I finally crashed around 4:00 a.m. and then overslept. Waking the boys at 7:45 when they need to be out the door at 8:10 is usually a prescription for threats and yelling. Instead I turned to bribery and offered them breakfast at McDonald's if they could be ready to roll in five minutes. Mission accomplished in about seven minutes! What could have been a rotten morning was, in fact, both tasty and fun.

2. I wish I could say the same for the afternoon. A napless toddler and other kids under the weather led to meltdowns and messes and one grumpy mother. When will I ever learn to just tune it out already?

But, since we are focusing on successes, I will note that my children will never be able to say their parents didn't model how to make amends when they blew it. I apologized, and we ended the evening on a positive note. As I kissed their slumbering heads, I prayed a prayer a friend taught me: Lord, bridge the gap between what they've needed and what they've received.

3. Plans are in the works for Tim's 13th birthday bash. Lots of progress yesterday.

What about you?

Time to Wean

Ainsley and I just enjoyed what is likely to be our last nursing session. In a few minutes I will smear my nose and cheek with $400 skin cream that, God willing, will halt the growth of squamous cells. You can't be pregnant or nursing and use this medication, so another era of motherhood passes.

I rocked her, smoothed her downy blond hair, and told her how special this time has been. She's, like, "Whatever, Mama. Hand me my pacie."

I love nursing. As I woman who has a penchant for being a Martha, but an ardent desire to be a Mary, nursing has helped me to slow down and enjoy my babies. I have been blessed with four enthusiastic nursers. I hasten to add that enthusiastic has not meant problem free. With all three boys, I faced significant and excruciatingly painful hurdles, but time, perseverance, and helpful hints from other nursing moms helped us negotiate these. Problems solved, we then went on to enjoy many, many months of peaceful nursing.

One of the boys adopted Ainsley's "whatever" attitude toward weaning. In fact he weaned so fast I was unprepared. One day I realized he hadn't nursed for two or three days. Somehow it just didn't seem right to pass through this milestone without fanfare.

"We didn't have our last nurse," I remember telling my husband. While Dave probably didn't fully understand the significance of this, at that point we had been married long enough for him to say, "You're right, honey. I think you should nurse him one last time." A wise man. So we had our ceremonial nurse. He jumped up and said, "Ooohh! Twains!" or something to that effect. Onward and upward! New vistas to explore! Big deal for me; no deal for him.

Another boy would have nursed his way into elementary school, content to find a coat closet or a corner of the teachers' lounge so he could top off during recess. Weaning was slow and about as fun as a raging case of mastitis.

I weaned John around sixteen months because I was four months pregnant with Ainsley and had yet to gain ounce number one. Considering what I ended up looking like circa forty weeks - enormous would be the word - this was probably a good thing. But I worried, so I weaned. John never looked back, and neither did I, really, because it was a little much to be growing one baby and having a toddler sprawled all over me. Some women love it. Me? Not so much.

I was supposed to start this treatment almost exactly two years ago. It was a dreary day. I was battling fatigue and finally decided to head across town for a Frappuccino to perk me up. Out of the blue I had the thought: You should take a pregnancy test. Whhhattt? I was forty-four years old. It had taken six years and a load of heartache to have John. He was still nursing! No way was I pregnant.

Except that I was.

That positive pregnancy test was possibly the biggest shock of my life. (Scratch that! Hearing my niece yell, "It's a girl!" beat the pregnancy test by a long shot.)

Still reeling from the news, I went on to a dermatology appointment and explained to my doctor why I would not be starting the treatment as planned. To put it mildly, she was not terribly impressed with my announcement. In fact I felt rather like a delinquent teenager babbling some lame explanation to a skeptical principal. Responsible women don't have surprise pregnancies. Certainly not forty-four-year-old women!

I submit that my sweet Ainsey-girl is the best surprise of my life.

My heart is a bit heavy, and my eyes welled up with tears as I read this to Dave. You know, you can care for other people's babies. You can read to them and rock them and play peek-a-boo. But, wet nurses aside, nursing is strictly a mother's domain. In all likelihood, my nursing days are now over. They have been special days indeed.

To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven. Prayers for God's grace as we embark on this next season.

On Saints and Lost Shoes

In honor of All Saints' Day, I have to offer a word of thanks to a saint all mothers seem to keep busy - Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost items. This morning was a tad chilly. Getting
Ainsley to keep socks on her feet requires me to put shoes on her (otherwise she yanks the socks and tosses them). You wouldn't think this would be so tough, but she was quite the fashionista this morning in the get-up posted right.

Yes, I could find just one brown and one polka-dotted shoe until I asked Saint Anthony to intercede and immediately found the second brown one. Saint Anthony never fails to deliver when lost pacifiers threaten to make bedtime run amok or when homework vanishes.

I have often wondered about the theology and reality of this phenomenon. Here's my take. God wants to answer all of our prayers as quickly and decisively as we find that lost shoe. Of course most of our prayers involve dilemmas far more serious and complicated than a missing pacifier or sneaker. Moreover these prayer requests typically involve other people and that pesky and inviolable point of human nature known as free will. While God wants to answer our prayers, He won't violate free will to do so. Lost items typically involve no free will, and God can flex a little muscle and give us a gratuitous gift. Here! Enjoy! Problem solved!

A member of my women's prayer group recently shared what she called a "selfish prayer." She had been training for a half-marathon and simply wanted to run the race pain free. The longer I thought about her prayer, the more I thought that it wasn't selfish at all. No, leg pain is not world peace, and a half-marathon isn't cancer research. But God is a loving and generous Father. Sometimes a child needs medicine or comfort or food or something else we would deem essential. Sometimes he comes running to Dad for a cookie or a new matchbox car or a trip to the ice cream store.

Today I am grateful for my heavenly Father and for the host of saints who intercede for our needs and wants, both significant and small.

Low Expectations

Adult: The four of you will have to agree on a movie to watch.

Child: It's going to be a bloodbath.