Not Quite The End
The makers of the Fisher Price Sea-Themed High Chair (who would be Fisher Price) really need to start advertising the dual purpose of their fine brand of high chairs.
Not only do they make excellent plastic things for sitting infants in while you attempt to repaint the walls with rice cereal (perhaps this is where our first primal urge to don face paint and head off, bare-chested to the subzero stadium to cheer on our favorite team comes from... our overwhelming and effusive use of rice cereal at a young age... then again, maybe not), but they have also invented what we've found to be the single most infant-quieting device in the history of the Universe (closely beating out having a sibling to watch, no matter what they're doing).
You see, if you turn the child around, place them gently on your knees while your feet rest on the bottom bar of the chair, you have now given them the single greatest bit of stimulation you will ever give your children. At least for our children. And yes, I may be mildly concerned what this says about our children, and I may have had reservations about giving voice to their sheer rapture, playing with the high chair the wrong way around, but it's out now, there's no turning back.
Now, for the non-children enabled, what I mean by rapture is five to ten minutes, tops, of being able to leave the child sitting on your lap, perched precariously, fiddling with belt buckles, straps, plastic seat cushion, and occasionally the hard plastic underneath that seat cushion. You, as a parent, are pinned beneath your child, unable to move or get a sip of tea or bite of breakfast, unless you have large enough hands to wrap the baby up and ensure they won't dive off your lap at the first hint that they may not be 100% shackled down.
After five to ten minutes, of course, you'd better move on to something else, but for those blissful ticks of the clock... well, let's just say you may be able to master the ability to catnap while clutching a baby to your knees.
disclaimer:
Yeah, last week was a weak attempt at an April Fools joke. And half serious.
So we're out, but just barely limping along. We hope to have more Sane Magazine, more Sane Magazine like it used to be, for Pete's sake (umm, when it was better than it presently is, anyway).
Maybe we need a little sabbatical.
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