© 2005 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

y daughter is almost nine months old.  It’s a great time around our house for several reasons.  Allison is crawling and trying to talk and is an all around happy and content little girl.  But something else is happening as well.  Something wonderful and disgusting at the same time.  No I’m not talking about the introduction of solid foods and the new and interesting smells it adds to her diapers.  I’m referring to the fact that at some point between six months and a year after your first child is born, you suddenly realize that you’re an expert… on everything. 

It’s wonderful because now you know exactly what your child needs and when they need it, and it makes the whole parenting thing seem like less of a chore.  What makes it disgusting is the fact that every other parent in the world has realized the exact same thing.  And out of the goodness of their hearts, they want nothing more than to tell you how you’re doing it wrong. 

Everything from the toys you’re buying, to the stroller you’re using, to the number of times per day you’re feeding them.  Lauren and I are following the Attachment Parenting philosophy, which runs pretty much counter to every modern train of thought in childrearing, so we’ve been especially privileged because everybody is dying to correct us.  We listen and nod and smile painfully as if to say, “I’m humoring you now, but shut up before I stuff this burp rag down your throat.”

We’ve recognized that the only good advice is the kind that’s actually solicited, so we’ve done our best not to proselytize our views unless asked – or provoked.  It’s tough because, like I said, we’re experts now too and we also feel compelled to tell everybody just how badly they’re screwing their kids up.  But we’d like to hang onto at least a few of our friends, so we’re only giving advice to two groups of people: the toy makers and the book publishers.

So over the next couple weeks, I will be dispensing my own brand of parental advice.  That is to say, I will be bitching and moaning about everything that’s wrong with the people I’m paying to help entertain and educate my daughter. 

Let’s start with toy safety shall we?  Allison owns a xylophone whose sticks are tied to the base so they don’t get lost.  Unfortunately, the strings are so short that you can’t actually hit the bells at the proper angle to elicit a resonating “ding.”  Apparently this is a safety feature so the child doesn’t wrap the string around her neck.  But to me this is like selling a car but removing the gas tank for fear of an explosion.  Kind of defeats the purpose of why somebody would buy the thing in the first place doesn’t it? 

That’s right, you didn’t misread.  I am in fact saying that there is too much safety in my daughter’s toys.

And I know in this era of frivolous lawsuits, corporations are afraid of getting sued for every child that chokes, vomits or bursts into flames.  That’s why I think Congress needs to pass a “Survival of the Fittest” bill that would exempt the toy companies from any harm done to a kid with stupid parents.  Natural Selection: the parents who let their kids wrap too many ropes around their necks don’t get to see their genes replicated in the next generation. 

So I’m not blaming the toy companies per se, although they are inconsistent.  For instance, Allison owns a toy telephone whose chord is too short to actually lift the handset to her ear.  She either has to lean her head all the way to the floor or lift the entire phone off the ground.  Okay fine, strangulation hazard, I get that.  But then the phone has a three-foot string so she can pull it across the floor.  Um… hello!  If you’re going to give my kid a makeshift noose anyway, why not put it where it can actually make the toy functional?

But I digress.  Toy safety is just my pet peeve.  My real beef, which I’ll get into next time, is with the publishers of children’s books.  So listen up over the next couple weeks Penguin Putnam and the rest of you.  I’ll be expecting some changes to be made by my daughter’s next birthday.  If not, I may just lengthen the chord on her phone and send it to your kids as a present. 

For more advice:
PART II - LITTLE BOOKS THAT CAN'T