Boys’ Toys

I never realised, pre-children, that having boys would require specialist training or that I would be so unequipped to deal with the many pitfalls of boys’ toys.  

Like how to convert Transformers, for example.  Some of them are apparently suitable from the age of three and the diagram on the box makes the transformation look deceptively easy, yet my brain withers and dies when I try because the manufacturers are obviously assuming some basic level of hand eye coordination that I’m sadly lacking.

I have zero interest in computer games and they make me physically panic; my mouth goes dry and my hands get clammy when faced with the prospect of Mario Kart.  Just how do people manage to play without physically moving or at least sticking their tongue out of the corner of their mouth?  Not only that, but I can’t even manage to feign enthusiasm in watching my children play on them; I sound unconvincing even to myself and I suddenly and uncharacteristically feel an overwhelming compulsion to clean the house.

I also can’t bear the pity in their eyes when they ask me to get them onto the next level and after watching my incompetent attempts say, ‘It’s OK, Mummy, I’ll ask Daddy when he gets home.’

I want to enrol at some sort of secret academy where I can try a variety of simulated challenges, like working on my facial expressions when I’m forced to watch football so that I look animated and can at least cheer for the right side.  I could buy some tapes similar to the ones you get when you’re learning a new language; they could teach me key phrases to make me sound knowledgeable when used in the correct context and with the right amount of emphasis, like, ‘Penalty, referee!’ and ‘Offiside!’.

I’m not artistic at the best of times but I can just about manage to draw houses, rainbows and basic animal shapes.  My boys are really pushing their luck when they request an alien or a monster because I tend to produce a stick figure with a few extra arms and eyes.  They look at it, look at me with incredulity and sympathy simultaneously in their eyes…then ask my husband to draw one.

I dread those immortal words, ‘Mummy, do you want to play cars with me?’.  Truthful answer?  I’d rather remove my own organs without anaesthetic, thanks.  But I love my children and I want to make them happy, so I try.  I even make all the brumming noises and they humour me for a bit, but we all know I’m just not doing it right.  Give me a Barbie or a Girl’s World and I’ll play all day, but cars are daft.

I don’t want to pretend to be a Power Ranger, the lycra is too unforgiving.  The Optimus Prime mask gives me hat hair and Batman, a word of advice, black eyeliner just isn’t flattering on everyone and capes are SO last season…