October 31, 1973

Dear Diary,

Today was a day that will go down in history—the Great Toy Catastrophe of 1973! I didn’t think much could rattle my parenting skills, but this one hit me like a freight train.

It all started this morning when I was feeling ambitious. I thought to myself, “Let’s clean up the playroom! It’s time to sort through all of Sarah’s toys.” I envisioned a beautiful play space, complete with neatly organized toys, a cozy reading nook, and maybe even a motivational poster that read, “A tidy space is a tidy mind!”

I dove into the task headfirst, shoving toys into bins like a crazed raccoon. I was on a roll, channeling my inner Marie Kondo, when I decided it would be a great idea to introduce Sarah to her colorful blocks. You know, the kind that are supposed to help with motor skills and all that jazz.

I grabbed the block set and plopped them down in front of her. For a moment, she stared at them like they were alien artifacts. Then, she lunged at them with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store! I thought, “Finally! We’re making progress!”

But then, the disaster struck. Sarah managed to knock over one of the bins, and toys began spilling out like a volcano erupting. It was a sea of stuffed animals, rattles, and—of course—the infamous squeaky toys that seemed to multiply overnight.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It didn’t take long for the chaos to escalate. In her excitement, Sarah grabbed one of her soft, plush toys and promptly decided it was time to initiate a dramatic re-enactment of a battle scene. She swung it around with all her might, and I watched in horror as it flew across the room, knocking down a framed picture of our wedding.

“Oops!” she squealed, giving me a wide-eyed innocent look that made me simultaneously laugh and cry. I knew I should probably teach her about boundaries, but honestly, how could I resist that adorable face?

With the room now resembling a toy factory explosion, I decided it was time to take action. I enlisted Helen’s help, and together we began the daunting task of restoring order. We scooped up toys and attempted to create a “designated play area,” but it quickly became apparent that we were fighting a losing battle.

The final straw came when I found myself stepping on one of those dreaded squeaky toys. You know the ones—where it squeaks at the most inconvenient times, as if mocking your pain. I yelped, and Sarah burst into giggles, thinking it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen.

Finally, after what felt like hours, we managed to bring some semblance of order to the playroom. We sat down on the floor, exhausted but laughing. It was chaos, yes, but it was also a reminder of how quickly life can shift from calm to wild and how much joy can come from the mess.

As I write this, I realize that parenting is like a rollercoaster—filled with ups, downs, and plenty of unexpected twists. I might not have a perfectly organized playroom, but I have a happy little girl who finds joy in the simplest of things. And you know what? That’s what really matters.

Here’s to more toy catastrophes and the beautiful messiness

of parenthood!