There's A Naked Man Hanging from My Oven Door

...I thought that'd get your attention. Unfortunately, it's true. Mr. Black Ken Doll, a remnant of my daughters' early years, has a new career with my son. Strung up with the cord of a yo-yo, he is suspended for some unknown purpose. "He likes to hang there," I am told. Like his sisters were before him, W doesn't like his "people" with clothes on, which makes for embarrassing moments when going into the real world. I put my foot down when he heads out the door with a handful of naked Barbies.

Toys are amazing. When the girls were young, I stupidly set about having nice plastic storage containers to organize the toys and all the VHS tapes nicely arranged on bookshelves. Of course, I'd come back only a short time later to see all the toys jumbled together and the VHS tapes being used for building fences and houses. Their creativity was at an all time high, as was my housekeeping frustration.

W, on the other hand, delights in taking things apart, burying them in the sand, or filling them with water. Hanging things up and bungie cords also seem to be a treasured occupation. He doesn't, however, always like to play alone. (If he IS playing alone, be suspicious. He most likely has a permanent marker.) Dh and I thought that the days of talking toys were over with the maturing of our daughters. When I say talking toys, I am not referring to electronic toys, rather the uses of falsetto voices to have one inanimate object interact and "talk" to another inanimate object. Now, rather than Barbies talking, we have talking tractors. Both dh and I moan with dread when W says, after getting us to agree to play tractors with him, says "let's have the tractors talk".

Well, I best get to correcting homework for the girls and see if I can untie the naked man from my oven door. Bye for now!