We’d only had JJ a couple of weeks when his first Thanksgiving rolled around. Since he was a month early, Grams and Granddad were out of town on previous plans, so we spent it with some nearby friends. In addition to a wonderful meal and some much-needed rest, they also gave us this unassuming little toy:
This cute little dragon sports a mischevious smile and a clip so you can hang it on the car seat or stroller, and has the requisite black and white bits which are supposedly the most attractive to infants.
Anyhoo, the best part is when you squeeze its belly, it blurts out “Bleah!” Like its barfing. Squeeze it again, and it’s in a slightly different pitch. Same for the third squeeze. A BARFING DRAGON. I’m pretty sure I squealed with delight. This was exactly the kind of toy for my personality and for the kind of child I wanted to raise. Cute, educational (don’t forget the black and white bits), and irreverent.
I know it seems like a little thing, but I was an extremely tired, extremely new father, and this furry, barfy toy assured me that there was a place for me and my family to belong.