Writing for life

Published in the WOW! supplement of the Evening Echo 21/11/2007

When you’re seven, thirty Euro must seem like a small fortune. It was certainly burning a hole in the twins’ pockets. Most of the young guests at their birthday party had brought them small gifts – but some had given money, and the twins had been planning how they were going to spend it ever since.

I’d suggested that they get something useful with it, something that would last them a while. Like a decent torch for example. They love torches, but the two or three Euro plastic varieties never seemed to last very long. They always ended up purloining my old Maglite – which is older than they are and still going strong – to illuminate their night-time antics. Here was a perfect opportunity for them to get one of their own, and have enough money left for a toy.

They were having none of it. Top of their respective lists instead were Mr Potato Head and a Bratz Kids doll. The following weekend we were heading up to the city. The nagging started even before we got in the car.

“When can we go and get Potato Head?”

Not until we’ve been to see Nana in hospital and done what we need to do in town.

“How long will that take?”

As long as it takes.

“How long is that.”

Enough already!

Before heading for the hospital we took them for lunch to Wagamamas on South Main Street – while not exactly a regular haunt, it is one of the girls’ favourite places to eat. It’s very child friendly, which of course means that it’s parent friendly. It’s fast, it’s healthy, it’s nutritious and they love it.

Food is perhaps the only thing that can distract our children when they have something on their mind. We had a blissful 40 minute respite from Mr Potato Head while they were slurping their noodles. It was fantastic.

After visiting Nana we had quite a walk back across town towards the car, and of course the home of Mr Potato Head: Smyths Toys. I couldn’t believe how geared up everything was for Christmas already – shops decorated with lights and trees, full to the rafters with the latest Christmas stock and brimming with special offers. Even the people seemed in Christmas mode. I felt like screaming “it’s only November!”.

The stroll across town was a tortuous one – the twins whingeing incessantly about how long it was taking to reach the toy shop, the little one refusing to hold hands and running off to be engulfed by the bustling crowds at every opportunity. By the time we reached the shop their behaviour had plummeted to new depths and I was a bag of nerved. I contemplated banning their prospective purchases… but of course that would just have made things worse. So in we went!

Toy superstores were pretty thin on the ground when I was a boy. I still remember the sense of wonder and awe I felt when I first walked into one of these glorious emporiums. I saw it again now, reflected in the rapturous faces of my daughters as they wandered aisle after plastic-laden aisle. We found Mr Potato Head, eventually… and the Bratz Kids. They paid with their own money, and were delighted all the way home.

That was a week ago. Now Mr Potato Head lies unloved and forgotten in the bottom of a wardrobe somewhere, and the Bratz Kid is fraternising with a gaggle of unwanted Barbies in a plastic crate under one of their beds. And my Maglite is missing, again!