Sunday, February 10, 2008
Mozart Magic Milk Mug
In Grace's "Story of My Life", the Mozart Magic Cube is the soundtrack.
The Mozart Magic Cube, for those of you who are unfamiliar, is a cube that plays several Mozart songs. The six sides of the cube are buttons that represent different instruments that can be added or subtracted to the song that is being played. It's pretty cool. I can't say she carries it everywhere all day every day, but not a day goes by that it doesn't accompany her from room to room at some point. Unlike most toys that make sound, it doesn't annoy me because it's real music. It's like a little kid orchestra. I love music and I want my kids to appreciate it too, so I'm thrilled Grace loves this toy I picked especially to get her cultural education started. But I digress. This wasn't supposed to be the point.
I have found that the way Grace plays with her toys seldom matches the toy's raison d'etre. I find endearing the way she has chosen to use her Mozart Cube. I say it is the soundtrack for her life because Grace uses her cube as the musical accompaniment for her other activities. She will carry it out of her bedroom and set it down wherever she wants to play, push the button to get it started, and then start reading a book, 'folding laundry', or climb up on the coffee table and dance. When the music stops, she pauses her activity and pushes the button to start the music again, then resumes her activity. It is also useful in the way a cowbell is useful; I usually know right where she is in the house based on where the music is coming from. If the music is far away, say coming from her bedroom, I know I can load the dishwasher without her 'help'. If the music is approaching, I know it is time to close the dishwasher.
This morning Grace decided to pour her Cheerios out onto the tray and slurp them up like a puppy. I was busy making pancakes and she was making her happy toddler noises and eating along so I wasn't paying particular attention. By the time I looked up at her, her face and hair were dripping with milk. Paul was there and was not particularly dismayed. But he is generally not the one who bathes her or combs out her crunchy ratted hair while she screams and tries to escape. I tried to take his cue and just be calm (I believe his respose to my "GRACE!" was "What?") but I admit to being a little huffy as I tried to sponge the milk out of her hair.