>Mother of the Year

>About a year ago, I attended the second birthday party of the son of a friend of mine. Before the party, she had made sure to mention to me that little McParkerson was only allowed to play with wooden toys that did not feature characters from television shows or movies.

I watched as McParkerson opened boxes containing the dullest building blocks and wooden trains imaginable and felt sorry for the poor little boy who would never know the joys of Happy Meal toys, Transformers, or Superman Underoos. But my friend certainly wasn’t alone in her old-fashioned-toy crusade; I’ve continued to run into women at playgroups and storytimes whose kids can’t touch anything that doesn’t say Melissa and Doug or at least Lamaze somewhere on it.

And that’s usually when I break out my Homies and Hoodhounds.

My batshit crazy marvelously eccentric father-in-law, you see, stocks toy vending machines. In inner city LA. Which means that if they’re playing with it on the Eastside or in Watts, they’re playing with it at my house, too. The Hoodhounds are by far my puppy-loving Baby’s favorites…

…but she gives her Homies plenty of love, too.

I keep all of her vending toys in a sealed plastic bag and bring them along whenever we go to a restaurant or coffeeshop- she stays entertained and since we have an unlimited supply, it’s no big deal if we lose a few along the way. I have to admit, after seeing them around the house for so long, I forget that they’re controversial– at least, until I meet up with other moms, like Susie Sunshine and Nicole, whom I joined for coffee on Saturday.

“What the heck?” Susie said as Baby busily dumped her Homies and Hoodhounds out on the table. Susie picked up a plastic dog whose hind legs were two wheels. “What’s this?” she asked incredulously, before grabbing another dog, appropriately known as Killer. “Is he… attacking?!” She began laughing hysterically as I tried to explain how I’d come by my bizarre stash of toddler toys.

Nicole stayed quiet, but seemed a little nervous when her two-year-old began lining up Hoodhounds on the table with obvious glee. She was too nice to say anything, but I definitely detected a Who will save the children expression cross her face as her daughter clutched a spike-collared doberman and giggled delightedly.

After a while, Susie’s four boys returned from having lunch next door at a Japanese restaurant (the youngest, whom you may know as Dirt Monkey from her blog, proudly informed us he’d eaten “shooshee” for the first time), and were enchanted by Baby’s odd little wonderland. Soon, Baby, Dirt Monkey, and Nicole’s daughter had lined up every single Hoodhound and Homie on the windowsill, which led to the coffeeshop’s bathroom. It wasn’t long before restroom visitors began stopping, deeply disturbed fascinated by the sight of innocent young children happily playing with a large collection of rottweilers, pitt bulls and little cigar-smoking, bling-wearing men with cash spilling from the pockets of their baggy pants.

I realized as the whispers grew louder that unless I wanted to deal directly with a representative from the Department of Protective Services, it was time to pack up our toys and make an exit. Luckily, Susie needed to get back on the road, too. Before everyone left, though, I made sure that each child had two Homies or Hoodhounds to call his or her very own.

After all, what are friends for?