Finslippy is the name of a blog from a woman named Alice who has a boy named Henry. Finslippy’s funny. Really funny.
Babies are nice and all, but they don’t give a crap about design, and their taste is horrifying.
I learned this early on, when Henry began to accumulate mountains of tasteless accessories before he was even born. It was like he was sending out orders from my uterus. WISH TO SHOW THEM WHO IS BOSS. STOP. SEND MANY CARE BEARS AND PLENTY OF RATTAN. STOP.
Relatives we’d never met sent us heaps of blankets and crib sets and jingly toys for the baby-and none of them paid any attention to our registry, instead traveling their own crazy paths, providing us with items so ugly my eyes may have bled a little. And we had to keep each item, and take pictures of Henry with each item, and then send the pictures to said relative, or else one of our mothers would cry.
Then Henry began to grow, and lo, the mountain of stuff grew with him until it spilled across our living room rug. Now there are musical instruments and trucks and animals and Star Wars guys and more trucks and also trains. All of which include tiny parts that invariably come loose and get underfoot and send one of us skating across the kitchen floor at 3 a.m.
We tried to point out to him how badly it all clashes with our mid-century modern aesthetic, but the kid didn’t even care. Then we attempted to streamline his toy collection, but that resulted in tears and frantic searches for the beloved [insert name of toy he hadn't played with in six months here], and in the end we gave in.
So it appears that the child has won. This is distressing, but what truly scares me is I’m beginning not to mind anymore. It might be because I love him, or else I’m beginning to dig how the toys look. And years from now, when Henry is heading to college, I’ll send him off with our George Nelson chair so that I can make room for my new Battle Droid Super Death Station With Working Laser Beams.
It could happen.