Christmas is finally over. No more trying to squeeze a nap in between family functions, our routine is back in place, and we can finally relax…or so I thought.
Piggle, being the only wee one in a ginormous family, made out like a bandit in the gift department. Despite my efforts to downsize the playroom prior to the holidays, my house looks like an episode of Toddler Hoarders. Every room in the house has at least 10 toys in it, and at least 80% of them make some kind of noise. Therein lies my problem and the reason I can’t relax.
There is nothing on this planet I hate more than cotton balls and electronic toys. Not because I am anti-technology or a mean mom. I just can’t fucking stand hearing the same robot-voice over, and over, and over, and over, and…
I swear, I hear these toys in my dreams. They haunt me! I can’t escape them! Even if the damn thing is switched off, I’ve heard it so often, that the buttons don’t need to be pushed for the song to play on repeat in my head. I thought toddlerhood might be the catalyst that leads to my insanity, but now I’m sure it’ll be Vtech’s fault.
I’ve sworn a vendetta on everyone who bestowed these evil toys on us. Those who are past the child-bearing age will be forced to share a room with the noisiest, most complaining-est, worst-ever gassiest person in the nursing home. Those with functioning ovaries (I’m looking at you, Auntie E) will be receiving a box of noise-bots and 800 batteries every other week until they too crack from the pressure. I will also teach their children how to change the batteries themselves. There will be no escaping!
Revenge will be mine!