Damn Smurfs

I loved the Smurf as a child. You'd think I'd love the fact that Norah loves the Smurfs. But I don't. I hate it.

It started because of my mother. Yes, I'm blaming my mother for all of this nonsense. She purchased a Smurf cake for Norah's birthday party. It came with Smurf figurines. And blue poop. Blue frosting is now a no-no.

At the party, Norah's little pal, Will, wanted to keep Papa Smurf. Norah loves Papa Smurf more that any other of the little blue bastards, so I sadly said no. Oh, to replay that moment. To give the small child Papa Smurf would have been the greatest decision of my life.

Norah's birthday party was at the beginning of January. It is now March 20. Nearly three months. Every single day, every single hour of wakefulness, has been spent with Papa Smurf and Smurfette. Here's how every flippin' day has started for nearly three months.

Norah gets out of bed.

"Can you do the Smurfs?"

It's my job to give voices to the Smurfs and have them converse with Norah. Every game we play, the Smurfs play. Every book we read, the Smurfs read, too. Every meal we eat, the Smurfs are invited. And they're required to participate in witty small talk.

Ryan is not allowed to play Smurfs. I can't even get a reprieve.

We get home from preschool.

"Can you do the Smurfs?"

We forget about the Smurfs for two minutes.

"Can you do the Smurfs?"

We get ready for bath.

"Can you do the Smurfs?"

We get ready for bed.

"Can you do the Smurfs?"

It's insanity. The only good thing, is that if Papa Smurf asks Norah about her day at school, he at least gets an answer. If I ask, I get, "I don't 'member."

Even Mongo hates the Smurfs. He generally leaves Norah's toys be, but he loves chewing on the Smurfs. This ends in:

"NO, MONGO! NOOOOOO!"

And crying.

I hear a lot of crying. Crying occurs when I say, "Not right now, honey" or "It's a little early for Smurfs, sweetheart."

So I play Smurfs. And my throat is sore from doing different voices constantly. And my brain twitches violently every time I hear the request. And I fantasize about melting the Smurfs into a puddle of blue plastic carnage, or throwing them as far as I can down the street.

But I can't. She loves them. I love her. I try to think about asking her to play Smurfs with me when she's 14 years old, and laugh. How I'll miss those blue bastards.