Up until a few weeks ago, bathtime used to be a very peaceful affair. I would run Esther's bath, help her in, and sit down on the floor and read a book. This meant that I was in the room to keep an eye on her, and she could get on with her important bath rituals in peace. She would play with the bubbles, arrange the dolphins according to colour, swim with the turtle, pour water over her own head, and so on. Other than a few encouraging smiles, nods and noncommittal noises, the whole process required very little input from me. Instead, I was slowly working my way through a collection of short stories by Alice Adams. It was lovely.
And then, she decided that all her bath toys were boring.
The ritual changed. Suddenly, she wanted input from me, and a lot of it. "Mamma, sit there", she would instruct, indicating a spot by the edge of the tub. "Mamma, talk about airplanes." Or sometimes, "Mamma, talk about helicopters." At this point, I was supposed to recall all the fine details of one of her favourite books (coincidentally one of my most loathed books) and launch into a stimulating conversation about mini jets, crop sprayers and fuel tankers. Esther would participate, of course, helpfully interjecting an "And stunt planes!" or a "Wow! A biplane!" here and there.
I missed Alice Adams.
Yes, of course it is lovely that my daughter wants to talk to me. Yes, I will undoubtedly look back on these days with longing. But: she is not in daycare, and I think it is fair to say that I spend almost every second of every day in her company. Talking, playing, reading, cooking, walking, painting, jumping, counting and doing laundry. Among other things. So I don't think it's entirely unreasonable to want a more peaceful, taciturn form of co-existence during those precious twenty minutes. On the other hand, I don't blame her for being bored - those dolphins are the same colour now as they were ten months ago, and the turtle has swum the Channel four or five times already.
Which is why today saw us venturing into the garish, noisy and plasticky hell that is Toys R'Us.
Now, I didn't expect much. I just wanted to pick up a couple of bath toys, pay, and leave. I didn't mind that all the people who worked there appeared to have either a) a particularly unsightly flaky skin condition, b) hair that was pink, blue and falling out in patches, or c) both. I wasn't overly concerned by the menacing foursome of bulky Eastern European gangsters who trawled the aisles for almost an hour only to leave with a dinky little set of crayons. I was annoyed by the fact that such a large store had less than ten bath toys on offer, but even that wasn't what really got to me.
No, what made me really cranky - enough to get my act together and start writing again, after my brief hiatus - were two of the bath toys that we did manage to find.
The two toys were next to each other on the shelf. They were the only ones that were in the right age range for Esther, and they were similarly priced.
One toy was clearly intended for little boys. It had a picture of a grinning toddler on the packet, and
even the name spoke volumes - Action Rescue Centre. The rescue centre sticks to side of the tub and features a diver, a pilot, a boat, a helicopter and a scary, toothy shark. It also includes a chute which lets you send the diver flying into the tub at the push of a button, and a magnetic wind-up winch. Brilliant fun, endless possibilities for imaginative play. Here's a description from the product website:
Diver about to be captured by the shark? Press the “Rescue” button on
the activity centre to send the rescuer from the top of the look-out
tower down the chute and into the boat, ready for rescue.
The other toy was for little girls. What was it? Personally, I could have come up with a hundred ideas for imaginative water-based play for girls, even while leaving room for the gender differences that we apparently want to reinforce at every turn. A dolphin-feeding station. A turtle sanctuary. A beauty salon for mermaids, even, although I wouldn't have bought it. But the toy that was on offer reached a new low.
It was a washing machine.
The Bathtime Whirly Washer is pink, and sticks to the side of your tub. It features accessories such as tiny clothes, a bottle of detergent, a drying rack and a laundry basket. From the website:
"Realistic “click” sound indicates that the wash cycle has finished and the clothes are ready to be hung out to dry on the drying rack."
Excuse me? EXCUSE ME??? While the boys are out wrestling with sharks, flying choppers and rescuing divers, the girls are supposed to stay at home and WAIT FOR THE WASH CYCLE TO FINISH???
I don't even know what to say. I could rant and rave - oh, yes, I could rant and rave - but mainly I just feel tired. Honestly? A washing machine? A drying rack? This is where we're at?
Now, in the interest of honesty, I should add that Esther loves helping me with the laundry. She has plenty of pink, girly toys, and when she gets a little older I'd love to get her one of those child-sized kitchens, complete with pots and pans. If she wants one, that is.
I just never want her to feel, even for a second, that staying at home and doing laundry is her only option. Because really, truly, and fortunately, we have moved on from that.
In the end, we bought the Action Rescue Centre, and Esther loved it. For approximately ten minutes. Then she told me to sit down and talk about planes.
I guess I will catch up with Alice Adams later.
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