And then along comes Polly...

I have moments of parenting where I realize I must take responsibility for the error of my ways. Sometimes, it's more obvious than others...such as when I hear one of my daughters utter a word they have heard me speak in moments of frustration. A recent example, when Miss A said, "I am FREAKIN' hot!" Oh, uh huh. She's 5. She did not learn "freakin'" from her father, nor I suspect, from her Baptist Preschool. Alas, that one is all mine.

Something else that is all mine? Miss A and E's current obsession with the Polly Pocket line of dolls (this picture is NOT our collection, but sadly comes kinda close). These dolls are almost 4 inches tall and are made with some sort of plastic that makes their arms and legs kinda bend...which is needed when trying to get them into the spandex-like plastic fashions that accompany them. Even Miss O loves these things, but I have to admit that I normally confine Polly Pocket playtime during her naps because at least Miss A and E don't pester me as much to change dresses every few minutes. That, and I needed to be sure that Miss O wouldn't try to EAT any of Polly Pockets and her vast assortment of accessories, which she didn't/doesn't. Happily, Miss O rarely tries to eat a toy...I'm rather grateful for that, and I chalk that up there with her rare back washes as something I really like about her.

Anyhoo...it takes a certain dexterity to manipulate these "dresses" and accessories on and off of Polly. And when I mean dexterity, I probably mean patience and a true desire to play with the goshdarn things (see? And I wonder where my girls get this from!). Frankly, it's HARD to do! I think this is one reason why the girls end up dressing Polly (and I should mention, most of our Polly's are from the Disney Princess line, which is it's own little slice of the hot place because they have the most obnoxious lump of plastic atop their heads...yes, yes, I know it's supposed to be their luscious locks of hair, but seriously, it makes getting the dresses on and off even harder!!!!) in very extravagant gowns (they are easier to change in and out of because they have bigger neck openings) or letting them frolic about in their painted on underwear (the latter being seen most often).

I don't know why I even gave initial approval for them, but if I recall, they were all prizes when we were trying to potty train one of the girls and then they seemed like nice gifts for Holidays and...well...as a parent, sometimes you just start to glaze over when reality and plastic toys combine. It's a scary moment and a scary thing to admit, but it's true.

I bring this up, Gentle Reader, because of an episode we "enjoyed" yesterday. As you can imagine, the accessories for Polly (who, remember, is less than 4 inches high and quite stick-like with almost non-existent feet) are intsy. Tiny. Very very small. You get the picture.

I was on my way out the door to meet some friends for a girls' night out, leaving the Misses A, E, and O in Super J's awesome care, when I hear shrieking. I walk into the "office" and see the girls are sitting in mourning by my Dyson vacuum, which has a container in which you can see all dirt, dust and debris you've sucked up. True confessions: I love love love to vacuum and love love love to see the result of this passion, but I also love to empty that part of the vacuum because, let's face it, it's pretty gross. Alas, I had not emptied it yet and (can you see where this is going????) I had inadvertently sucked up a single accessory (I think they identified it as a belt. Of all things. A belt.) from the Polly Pocket collection.

Let the weeping and wailing commence in 3...2...1...and it begins.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhholycow.

Super J shoos me from the house. I feel guilty for about 3 minutes (ha! Obviously a bit more if I'm blogging about it) until I get on the road, because seriously, I had NO CLUE I had vacuumed up that wee bit o'plastic.

When I get home, I hear more of the story. Turns out that the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth did not end for at least...half an hour, if not longer? And it took some tough lovin' from Daddy (and an escalation of events from being sent to their room to a swat) to finally get the girls to quiet down because Super J was not, based on the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, going to dig through the dusty debris and pull out Polly's belt. Nope. He did the opposite. He took the canister and threw it all away. Gone went the dust and debris. Gone went Polly's belt. Holler, holler, holler went Miss A and E (and Miss O, I understand, tried to squeeze out a tear or two in honor of her sisters' distress, but really couldn't maintain any semblance of sadness because...well, she could care less at this age what's going on, especially if it doesn't concern her directly).

Eventually, the tide of woe subsided and, so I'm told by all, they had a lovely evening together, even enjoying some Otter pops out on the deck.

And more interestingly still, today the girls have been quite fastidious about picking up all their toys. Go Daddy. True confessions? I'd have just plucked the belt out of the canister and called it a day. lol.