Let me state the obvious: no one can ever be fully prepared for parenthood. Beyond a doubt, this was my experience. I mean, you get slammed, just absolutely sledgehammered in the head with responsibilities and frequent pangs of self-doubt. It’s perhaps an evolutionary blessing that new parents are sleep-deprived. The first days, weeks and months feel like a hazy dream, the details fuzzy and sugar-coated by that powerful drug, falling in love with your kid. Many of us forget and begin again with a second, third or fourth addition, reliving the newness, albeit on surer feet.

But here’s a new spin that isn’t quite so obvious: no one can ever be fully prepared for toy encounters. Okay, a bit of explanation is warranted here, too. You see, the kids grow up a little and start having opinions about things and start choosing things you wouldn’t normally choose for them. Especially toys. Sure, sure, toys are great! They’re objects that help children discover their surroundings, initiate creative thinking and help them to socialize with their peers by way of sharing.

Yet toys seem to multiply via some secretive nighttime asexual cell reproduction. They may even seem ominous as discarded weapons (just ask my husband who was once unlucky enough to step barefoot on a plastic giraffe ear that was so sharp that it sunk directly into the arch of his foot).

By the time your child hits age 4, and especially when there are other children running rampant in the household, you may have such an avalanche of toys built up that you yourself, the warden of the home, cannot keep track of all the toys. Where did that toy come from? you may wonder aloud several times a month, struggling to remember a last-minute tantrum-avoiding checkout line purchase, a birthday party goody bag or a vacation gift shop purchase.  That is when they sneak up and get you.

Over the past several months, every time I experienced an evil toy encounter, I documented it with my cell phone. And now I’m spreading the fear. Here, let me show you with eerily grainy pictures:

1.) A collection of couch cushion junk. Oh, you know, the usual: barrettes, magnets, rocks, dominoes, giant black leech. GIANT BLACK LEECH. Imagine my happy surprise when I unearthed this mysteriously-shaped object from the inner chasm of the sofa with my bare hands.

Origin: unknown.

Actual purpose: wind-up snake/slug/leech? that makes a comforting buzzing sound when in full play mode.

2.) An outdoor encounter. Here I am, congratulating myself on getting the kids buckled into their car seats in a quick and efficient manner, and I step around the car, enjoying the small moment of silence, when I spy something under the driver’s side WHAT THE HELL IS THAT. Is it dead? Is it going to get me? It’s in my hair! I think I actually ran away a little, I am ashamed to admit, leaving my children unprotected from the MUTANT SEWER CREATURE that was dwelling in a shadow beneath our car. It took me a minute. I had to steady myself, take a deep breath and find a stick to poke it with. Thankfully, it was made of plastic, not radioactively enlarged slime cells.

Origin: after much thought, huh, I kind of remember buying the boy one of those tubes of plastic animals from the gift shop at the museum. This one I think came from a prehistoric sea creatures set. Lifelike. Good job, toy makers.

3.) Halloween exists in a very short window of time for a reason. Oops, I forgot my keys, you guys. I’ll be right BAAAAAAAAAHHHH! Son of a.

Origin: most likely, a school Halloween party goody-bag, although this has never been confirmed.

Actual purpose: to fling against objects repeatedly until either getting the sticky black witch hand tangled in hair, stretched until it is torn in two pieces (which, double the fun!) or until the stickiness abates and mom sneaks the wobbly, eerily soft and limp toy into the trash. Good riddance.

4.) Cheese, the tail-less wonder. It was a routine trip to the bathroom and a cursory glance at the floor that sent me jumping out into the hallway. I have precedence for my fear with this one since last winter had me in a full minute’s standoff with a very casual, lackadaisical gray mouse in my kitchen.

Origin: The oft-overlooked and unsung hero of the Tinkerbell saga, Cheese the Mouse is Tink’s faithful sidekick in Tinkerbell the Movie, the first in the lovable CGI animated Disney movie series. In mint condition, Cheese would normally have a tail. I don’t know who bought this for my daughter. It may have been Santa or (gasp!) even me.

 5.) That thing from that movie my parents never let me see when I was young enough to actually want to watch it. In a brilliant example of the tendency for harried parents to slack on communication, my husband unearthed this grimacing, matted, bat-like creature from his parents’ attic and brought it home and set it – unwashed – in jaunty pose on my daughter’s bed without telling me. While waiting for an update to be installed on this very website, I went about the house looking for things to quickly tidy when this scrappy little creature gave me such a start. I seriously thought – in the millisecond it took the primal part of my brain to process it – that it was a hairy creature from outside (squirrel? raccoon?) that had made its way somehow through my daughter’s closed window. Totoro is like, Who is this guy and why does he hate you?

Origin: My husband’s childhood.

Actual purpose: a cuddly representation of a character from the hugely popular (except to me, apparently) 1984 film, Gremlins. When played with, it squeaks [shudder]. It could have been worse. Its actual purpose to myself? It frightened me for a split second earlier this afternoon, prompting me to write this post. So, thanks, weird bat-eared character. I think?

[ by Leah Sewell | terribly grainy photos courtesy of Leah's phone and taken with trembling hands ]

About the author:

Leah Sewell

Leah used to make magazines out of construction paper, glue and cut-up family photos. She was grounded a lot as a kid. Today she’s a poet, freelance graphic designer, editor of XYZ magazine and mother to Sylvia, 5, and Oliver, 3.