Parental Pain Scale

Today I continue the decontamination and decluttering from our Christmas “glut of greed.” I am completely aware that a fortnight has passed, but the surplus insanity combines with my penny-pinching refusal to pay the city for more than one garbage can. The paper shrouds from the merry mountain of madness therefore have to be shuffled off in measured increments.

Because my childrens' rooms are blanketed in a thick carpet of non-descript clutter, I have commanded that all new Christmas toys remain under guard in the living room until accommodations are made in the bedrooms, so currently my house resembles more of a minefield than a family living establishment.

In my enthusiasm to complete all my Christmas shopping in one pre-calculated and strategized attack (See Thanksgiving post on my acrid repulsion for shopping), I neglected several rules that have been in place since the establishment of our household. To warn other parents and guide future purchases, my husband and I have compiled our “pain scale”--developed after years of extensive research and colorful obscenities. This scale is an approximate measure (on a scale from 1-10) of the number of sailor-worthy curse words which escape a parent's lips when they are confronted with one of these toys at 3 a.m., in the soft arch of their foot.

1- Stuffed toys. Stuffed toys are mostly benign in their steppability (If Shakespeare can invent words, so can I, and any parent who has suffered from attack from an unsteppable toy will agree on the addition of the word to English vernacular). I really only include them because they generally are bedazzled with beady little eyes and noses which when marched on squarely are indeed painful, even if only slightly.

2- Balls. This is largely dependent on the size and density of the ball. Soccer balls and basketballs are generally a low pain factor due to their ability to be seen from great distances. Rubber “super” balls rise in their ability to produce colorful metaphors, and marbles (which are just balls in miniature) reach nearly a solid 3. The score on this scale immediately skyrockets to a six if ankle-rolling or bodily surrender to gravity is involved.

 

3- Fisher Price Little People. I refer to the newer design which is soft and squishy as opposed to the marble-headed Little People of my youth. As a parent, I am forever grateful for the forward thinking of toy designers at Fisher Price, who had doubtlessly stepped on several of the old kind, deemed to be nearly unsteppable, and felt compelled to rethink the materials. Stepping on the newer toys usually only prompts one to three ear-covering exclamations, which despite minimal pain, can often be edited to “Bible swears.” I can firmly declare that a marble-headed counterpart measures on a 4-5 on our scale, which may or may not be isolated to those found in Biblical verses.

With the introduction of #3, I bring up the crushability factor which is a dependent variable in this experiment in agony. If the material has some sort of flexibility, it dramatically decreases the amount of profanity that ensues. When I say crushability, I do not mean BREAKABILITY, being broken only means more pieces to become lodged in the fleshy soles of feet.

These next two can almost be interchangeable depending on the quantity and quality of the toys involved.
 

4- Lincoln Logs. These usually produce a higher level of colorful metaphors due to the fact that they are like a crude form of roller skates. Those that have awkwardly rolled/skidded/stumbled their way through their house on a couple of these little cylinders of joy, will completely agree with this assessment. The logs are also kindly designed with little corners to bite any fleshy arches unfortunate enough to cross their path. The level of maintenance on this toy also becomes a noteworthy variable, because splinters add a whole different level for justified profanity.

5- Wooden blocks. (See the above mentioned splinter factor for alterations) this also is dependent on whether the foot lands on a corner or one of the flat faces of the block. The average number of expletives also depends on the age of the blocks involved. New shiny blocks have lethally sharp corners, whereas blocks that have been abused through months and years of construction and deconstruction tend to have a more rounded aesthetic.

6.- Galactic Heroes. My eldest minion LOVES these little action figures, which unlike their “big boy” counterparts have very few little parts to break and remove. The oldest of the minions, is well beyond the recommended age for these loveable cartooned alternative to action figures, but he grew tired of stretching his skilled imagination by pretending that Anakin Skywalker lived during the years of the French Revolution and amazingly is still animated despite facing the guillotine. Or that his clone troopers were equipped with bazookas fused directly through the ulna and thus hands were superfluous. Although reminiscent to Little People, these have no squishability, hence no steppability, and therefore induce more censor-worthy tyrades.

7- Mega blocks. Not the large kind, which fall somewhere between Little People and Lincoln Logs. These are the medium-sized ones that have smaller hollow protuberances to nip at unshoed feet. There is an indulgence in the number of swear words uttered when the Mega-blocks project is incomplete because it generally involves stepping on a large population of the blocks in a small radius.

8- Action Figures. The largest culprit of achieving an eight-word-string of four-letter-words is a space-related franchise which cannot be named due to intellectual property infringements to some guy on some ranch in California (although it might be Disney now). These marauders are equipped with, for sidestepping copyright lawsuits, what we will call “glow cutlasses.” These “glow cutlasses” are generously cast by toy manufacturers in unforgiving and uncrushable plastic. Being impaled by a “glow cutlass” in the middle of an otherwise peaceful night may skyrocket your language to an immediate R or NC-17 rating.

9- Green army men. Again my eldest minion LOVES to recreate historic battles using small soldiers. If soldiers are unavailable, he is very flexible and improvises using anything available. One dark night, I went to power up the DVD player and realized that the remote control had been raided of batteries. I investigated to find that ALL of the remote controls, radio-controlled cars, cameras, book lights, flashlights, even alarm clocks had been deprived of all power. I stumbled down the toy mine-field of my hallway and painfully staggered over the thick carpet of child-created debris that blankets the back bedroom. There they stood, copper top helmets obediently glinting in the scarce light of the hallway. The next day, I bought a cubic ton of new batteries and a bucket of green army men. Unfortunately, green army men have little pointy guns, that though deprived of combustible ammunition, pack a punch during drowsy 4 a.m. trips to the toilet.

10-Hot wheels cars. This rating is entirely awarded on the lack of crushability factor. These cars are famous for the collectable and heirloomable durability, but with this durability comes the completely unforgiving die cast metal. By employing superhuman methods of metal tempering, these toys can be used to draw blood! There is nearly nothing more excrutiating than a rearview mirror to the foot!

I am aware and not a complete mathematical idiot, but there is one more addition to our scale of pain. A toy that, though cleverly designed and coveted above gold or sanity, induces a steady stream of words that I am ashamed to even have listed in my vocabulary, let alone actually use. Again, I reiterate that I am the mother of FIVE boys, FIVE very creative boys, FIVE boys who are all aiming to attend MIT to design and build weapons and vehicles of the future, FIVE boys who all want to study engineering and therefore, I am subject to FIVE boys worth of LEGOS. FIVE boys with of miniature turntably Legos, stabbing spearlike Legos, space-franchised indescribable and uncrushable blob shaped Legos, Legos with little yellow faces that seemingly smile and mock the agony of an unsuspecting parent.

Yup, measuring firmly at a 26 (on our scale from 1-10) are LEGOS. I have actually had to dislodge a LEGO from my foot at heaven-forbidden hours of the morn using a pair of tweezers and numerous colorful expletives. I have actually had to ponder whether or not my Lego-created injury might require anesthetics and stitches (REALLY not joking). That is a pain that no number of “Oh My Hecks,” “FUDGES!” or “Froggins” is going to alleviate and usually justifies if not requires immediate linguistic escalation.