Ten months into this thing called parenting, I’ve come to the conclusion that toys aren’t needed:
I scatter the toys over the living room floor and shake the rattle incessantly. He crawls for the remote. I replace the remote with plastic keys, shaking to entice. He sees my necklace and reaches his chubby fingers to make it his. I remove my necklace. I reach for the nearest stuffed animal to distract him. He claps. But could not care less about the plush pig I offer.
He crawls away. Just when I think he’s headed for a toy, he makes the dog’s bed his recliner. I let him revel in the moment of victory, then go replace the dog bed with a jack-in-the box. I crank the toy. Little one is remotely interested until he spies the dog whom he forgot about chasing. Jack is ignored.
Into the kitchen he crawls with aspirations of pulling the canine’s tail. He spies the plant and diverts course. Dirt, his favorite! I intercept & avert. I scrounge for something tempting in the kitchen’s drawers & dangle the found spatula in his face. At least, THIS is more interesting than a toy. But only until he remembers about the dog’s tail. Off he goes.
He spies the belt stool that looks interesting. He stops to investigate.
I move him back to the center of the living room floor and shake the rattle incessantly. He crawls for the remote…(Please go back to the beginning of this story to continue reading my daily, sometimes ‘by the minute’ cycle..then repeat.)
