WARNING: This blog contains sharp language, pointed remarks and words that can be choked on. Under certain circumstances, it may have a shock potential. Reading this blog could result in head trauma and/or irreversible brain damage. May be used indoors or out. Not advised for children under, oh, let's say twelve years of age.
There. I have disclaimed you.
The consumer advocacy group W.A.T.C.H. (World Against Toys Causing Harm) has published its list of what it believes are the 10 worst toys of 2011. The toys are allegedly dangerous, meaning they have "the potential to cause childhood injuries, or even death." Most of the toys are manufactured for small children. Their hazards are by and large of the choking variety, with a few strangulation and head injury potentials thrown in. W.A.T.C.H. has been doing this list since 1973. I applaud their efforts to promote toy safety, efforts that have prompted numerous product design changes that undoubtedly have reduced injuries and saved lives. But...
We shouldn't need groups telling us what's hazardous to our health. Anyone paying attention already knows what's hazardous: EVERYTHING! Everything is potentially life-threatening, which means everything should come with a warning label because somewhere there is a guy - odds are it's the male of our species - who will find some way to use some thing contrary to its designed purpose. That results in lowering the bar of stupidity juuuust enough for another attorney to jump over and before you know it, everything with a pointed end has a sponge tip. And the only people
that's good for are the Nerf product development people at Hasbro, the toy company that manufactures a fully automatic Nerf blaster.
Fully automatic, because "semi" is half-assed. (Rumors about the development of a long-range, unmanned Nerf bunker buster are unfounded.) Incidentally, the blaster was recalled, but
not because of potential injury to the person being shot. It was recalled because the plunger might pinch the skin on the
shooter's hand. Medic!
As a parent, I generally placed proper concern about the toys I bought for my children where it belonged. If I knew I wouldn't enjoy playing with them, I knew my kids wouldn't, either. Sure, there were times I'd cave in and buy them something that would distract them from "my" toys. On those occasions, I put faith in my child's I.Q. that toys having parts that could be inserted into most any orifice wouldn't be inserted into those places. Hell, there were times I had enough trouble getting food into their mouths, so they're gonna swallow plastic? Hah!
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The Polly Pocket Hospital, which
comes with two nurses and an on-call
Ear, Nose and Throat specialist.
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My daughter, for example, had a large collection of Polly Pockets, miniature plastic figures that lived in pocket-sized cases. Her collection was large enough that she could have crapped an entire Liliputian town - including pets - out of her tiny little butt. Never happened. My son also had plenty of toys perfectly capable of fitting comfortably up his nose or scarring his flesh. Yes, there were occasions when my ear caught the muted, painful cry that preceded the slipper-footed child running toward me holding an "owie." Then came the story of what happened, followed by me telling them what my parents told me: "Well knock it off before someone really gets hurt." I'd slap on a cool bandage adorned with patterns of Ninja Turtles or kitties to impress their friends and send them on their way. Won't happen again, because next time is "I told you so" time, "Clean up this room" time, or "Put it away and read a book" time. Sometimes all three.
Like me, my kids learned to respect pain. When you respect pain, you respect risk and you avoid extreme pain. Simple. I know this because as a kid I owned two of the three top-rated banned toys in the United States: Clackers, which were two very hard plastic balls attached to a string, and Lawn Darts, which need no description. (The third, in case you're interested, was the Slip 'n Slide). Want to guess how many times I hit myself with the Clackers? If you guessed "once" you were right. There was no second time because the first time hurt way too much. Want to guess how many times we played Lawn Darts contrary to the manufacturer's instructions or warnings? Are you
kidding? I couldn't begin to count the number of modified games that didn't include "how far," "how high" or "how close can you get it to me." An easier question would ask how many times one of us got hit with the darts, with the answer being "zero." Know why? Because enough of us got hit in the head or arm with the fucking Clackers!
I'm not saying I didn't look out for the welfare of my children. I'd have been heartbroken had something serious happened to either of them. But sometimes I think we put warnings on things or make rules that do nothing more than shift accountability. By trusting groups with cute names like W.A.T.C.H. instead of a group with a to-the-point name like D.A.R.W.I.N. (Dangerous Activities Reducing Worldwide Inhabitant Numbers) telling us how to play, we merely add to the shifting of responsibility away from ourselves as parents to teach our children a) to be cautious and, b) that there are avoidable consequences for not paying attention to "a." A helmet doesn't make a bicycle safe, just saf
-er. Safe is only good when it's
put it in the proper perspective. Some meaning must be attached to it, so you occasionally have to let the kid on the Big Wheel roll down a steep slope and hope his equilibrium is better than his judgment.
Today, it's all fun and games until
someone gets an eye poked out an attorney shows up. Labels to us were nothing more than a third parent, which means very little when you don't pay attention to the two you already have. Still, I'd hate to think where I'd be today if I hadn't learned first-hand that concrete is hard, electricity shocks and fire is hot. Sometimes I learned painfully, and sometimes playfully. Would we have been safer growing up heeding any of the warnings we frequently disregarded? Doubtful. Because even if there had been a warning label on the dryer drum telling us not to shove my brother inside and roll him down the driveway...well, Lawn Darts.
