Kicking Mr. Bucket

I keep getting emails for private jet rentals and Brazilian vacations. Hell, I haven’t finished paying off Christmas of 1994.

That Christmas I’m still paying off pretty much changed my life. It all started when Santa brought my now, improv actress daughter, a Mr. Bucket. The name in and of itself is a little frightening when you think of bucket connotations-“kick the bucket”, “bucket list”, “bucket head”-PPHHFT; it just has issues written all over it. I should have known.

Well this, “batteries not included” bucket game with googly eyes spins around and chases you while spitting out twelve ping pong balls. Oh, wait-I hear nervous laughter! You guys had one too didn’t you? Yeah, Milton Bradley screwed up a whole generation.

Apparently the purpose of the game is to scoop up the balls with a sand shovel and dump them in the bucket, vainly hoping they will remain. But Mr. Bucket just keeps spinning and spewing and popping those balls to kingdom come- faster than a jack rabbit on a date.

Milton Bradley should be footing the therapy bill for a whole generation of Mr. Bucket recipients. False expectations, failure to preform, fear of timed tasks, rigged systems, unrealistic goals-sound familiar? That’s just my opinion, no class action suits have been filed-yet.

So, Kenzie, that’s her name- y’all stop and say hey after reading this, tell her Mom sent you- had no tolerance for redundancy. Why wash a dish if you’ll use it again, etc.

Anyway-she must have been, maybe three, when she got it and I, like the naïve young mother I was, assumed this would be an excellent “self-centered” toy. Self-Centered toy was the 90’s catch phrase for, “It won’t require your mother to play with you.”

She, being the bright child she was, saw through this right off the bat. But, I encouraged just one game while I hid out in the linen closet and swilled a glass of wine out of a jelly jar. The jar still had some jelly and few toast crumbs from breakfast, but at that stage of motherhood one wasn’t too picky.

From my self-medicating seclusion, I heard her squealing, heard the bucket whirring, heard the pop, pop, pop of the balls, and then-nothing.

Let me tell you if you are a parent, there is nothing, I tell you nothing, as terrifying as silence when you have a toddler. Well, I heard nothing that is, until she yanked open the closet door-little brat had sniffed out my hidey hole. As my eyes adjusted I could see her silhouetted against the glow of fluorescent bathroom light, hair bow dangling by a few straggly hairs, pajama bottoms sagging from chasing the balls, head cocked to one side- and then she chirped.  

She chirped, she didn’t talk. At that age she sounded like a canary sucking helium.

“I win mama, I win!”

I thought to myself, well good for you, now go away I’m busy. But as all three year olds do in their zest to suck your life right outta your nose, she persisted.

“I win, mama, I win! Come see, come see!”

By this time I had gotten down to the crumbs and could no longer convince myself drinking crappy wine from a jelly jar with remnants of jelly and toast crumbs was analogous to crudités and cocktails.

I acquiesced.

She took me by the hand-it was sticky of course-my kids are grown and my entire house is still sticky, and lead me down the hall to her bathroom.

Positioning herself in front of the toilet she made a sweeping motion like Vanna White, still chirping, “I win!”

I looked into the toilet-nothing. I looked at Kenzie, her big, brown eyes beaming up at me in absolute pride at her accomplishment.

“What?” I said. “Why did you win?”

She narrowed her eyes with the absolute disgust only a child can muster when it occurs to them how stupid their parents really are.

“I WIN MAMA!” She shouted as we Americans tend to do in a foreign countries to improve the natives understanding of English.

I blinked.

She blew out through her little pursed, pink lips, her bangs poofing up on the hot updraft. She was clearly disgusted.

She put her hands on hips and chirped again, “I win!”

Slowly, through the lack of the sleep induced stupor of toddler raising and some quantity of crappy wine, things began to clear.

I spied Mr. Bucket lying askew in the corner by the tub where she had clearly kicked it.

“Kenzie,” I asked? “where are the balls?”

Suddenly, the heavens opened and Harold the Hark Angel burst into glorious song, lucidity was upon me!! She detected it in the sudden focus of my eyes.  Pride emanated from her tiny, tenacious being. She, she had beaten the system. She had destroyed the enemy. She controlled Mr. Bucket's destiny. She had brought him and his frenzied, popping balls to ruin. She was the ruler of the world! 

“Kenzie,” I asked bending down close to the rim, peering into the hole, “where are the balls?”

With a triumphal look one imagines adopted by Joan of Arc entering Orleans she chirped, “I fwush ‘em Mama, I fwush ‘em!”

“All of them?” I asked.

She nodded her cherubic head, bow still dangling.

“All twelve of them?”

Another nod.

Sold that house in three days I did. Erma Bombeck would totally understand the septic tank issues.

Rode by the neighborhood several years later-incognito of course. The house was for sale, again. I’m thinking to this day that house is like the Amityville Horror house- people move in, bad things happen-exorcists- I mean plumbers, are called, things are fine for a while, and then the demons return-all twelve of them.

I have checked before publication of this blog. The statute of limitations has expired.