The array was so dizzying I nearly had to sit down.
I'm barely on the brink of the Exersaucer/Jumperoo aisle at Babies'R'Us and already the colors and patterns are so overwhelming I'm wishing for some dramamine. Determinedly, I push the cart into this sensory attack and try to begin to sort out which cloth-and-plastic contraption will best amuse my baby.
Choosing toys for an infant is worse than picking out a gift for a relative you have never met. At least with a relative, the person has a history of likes and dislikes and could even (if necessary) provide a cogent summary of needs and desires. (If, I suppose, you are the type of person who assigns short-answer questions to relatives, which, as an English teacher, I happen to be.) An infant is more like a Martian than a human relative. I imagine myself having to choose a gift for an alien visitor and having far more luck choosing something appropriate for his spaceship than having any accuracy picking something that will delight my son. For one thing, he is fickle. For another, novelty is its own present, which every toy has. . .and loses.
I should mention, at this point, that this episode happened when Xander was nigh four months old. He was not, as you might imagine, riding in his infant seat in the shopping cart, blissfully asleep. He was not doing this because he was already longer than his car seat and and too big to fit inside the harness. Yes, the seat he is supposed to ride in, rear-facing, until a year. (Or how 'bout two? Clearly, the AAP has not met my son.) No, he was dangling rather uncomfortably from his front-carrier, trying to simultaneously punch me in the face and kick me in the pelvis. But this is not a post about car seats--that will take at least two or three entries. This post is about my unrequited love for Jumperoos.
Xander has been kicking his legs since well before he was born. In the early weeks of his life, he had trouble sleeping because those legs just. . .wouldn't. . .stop. . .KICKING. By four months, with excellent trunk and neck control, I thought he was ready for a Jumperoo. He could kick and kick to his heart's content, get some exercise, and spend some time not breaking my back: a win for everyone! So I found a (small) window in his eating schedule and staggered into the retina-assaulting baby exercise aisle.
So many models! So many colors! So many toys! What theme did I enjoy? Which garish assortment of colors would be least offensive in my living room? Did I want one that played music when he jumped? One with friendly forest animal friends? As I studied the placards with the specs of each Jumperoo, I made a disheartening discovery.
The weight limit.
The weight limit on every Jumperoo was 24 or 25 pounds. At his four month check-up, Alexander was 21 and change. At his average rate of three pounds per month, I could expect him to be done with the Jumperoo in. . .three weeks. Not worth $100, certainly. Not even worth the $60 I could spend on Amazon or at the consignment store. My heart fell. No Jumperoo for Alexander.
The Jumperoo is not the only thing he has done without, but the list would be long and laborious. More telling are the things he has outgrown far too early: his bassinet, his bouncy seat, his infant car seat, his front carrier, his Exersaucer. . .Each one sent to the baby toy graveyard (our storage unit) long before Alexander had left the developmental stage the item was meant to service.
Baby Truism #2: Always check weight limits.
I'll admit that one of my keys to success and, simultaneously, my fatal flaw is my undying commitment to following the rules. (I'm the person who nearly has an attack when someone doesn't take a number at the deli. . .even when no one is waiting. The sign says, "Take a number"!) Still, I don't honestly believe that a baby item will fall to bits of kindling (or whatever the plastic equivalent is) the moment my child is an ounce over the weight limit. I realize that these limits are very likely low-balled as part of the manufacturer's bid not to get sued senseless. However, I'm no fool either: I know how much downward force my son would exert on a Jumperoo, and I know that force only gets greater as he gets heavier. I'm not really interested in making him a test subject/crash dummy to find out exactly what the "smashed to bits" limit is on baby stuff.
The good news is that at this point Alexander has no idea that he has missed out on anything. He is not, as far as I can tell, emotionally scarred by being moved to a crib at six weeks. (My emotional scarring, on the other hand. . .) However, the day will come. My day of reckoning as a big kid was when I no longer fit on the Playplace at McDonald's. However, like car seats, that is a post unto itself. (I'll need tissues. It was a tough day.)
A few weeks ago, Brian and I picked out a riding toy for Xander's first birthday. Our main qualification? Not colors, not features, not obnoxiousness level--weight limit. We got one good to fifty pounds. Since Alexander is somewhere in the 33 range, I think we're good for a month. Or two.
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