You parents know them…
AKA The brightly colored assholes that drove moms to fifty shades of crazy during the 2016 holiday season.
You couldn’t get your hands on them…
If you did snag one, it cost you your mortgage as well as your soul…
People who ended up with less than perfect Hatchimals lost their minds. One woman actually tried to sue the maker when her kid’s furry satanic gift didn’t hatch correctly. (Ummm…. quick thought asshole… read the return policy when buying pricey gifts.)
Other parents went bananas claiming their expensive (and really ugly) toys were swearing at their kids. (Ummmm…. Hatchimals talk in a high pitched gibbly-garb language that eats your brain. Perhaps you imagined swearing as the toy scrambled your mind, this I can see happening. Purposely swearing or rigged to curse up a storm, I think not.)
I felt so relieved when my girls showed zero interest in these toys last holiday season. I truly felt like I dodged the greatest of bullets when the Hatchimal didn’t make Santa’s Wish List. I should have known that it wouldn’t last for long. I admit that I am kind of an asshole parents who allows far too much U Tube surfing of random strangers opening toys on camera, so it was only a matter of time before the Hatchimals weaseled their way into my children’s hearts.
Fucking U Tube…
In a moment of weakness I bought my middle daughter one of these beasts for her seventh birthday. A few days post birthday I am regretting this gift with every fiber of my being.
She could not believe her eyes when she opened up her gift and realized that we had bought her a little slice of parenting hell. She screeched, she hugged us, her oval-shaped eyes lit up and for a split second I felt like we had hit the gift giving jackpot. We had done it!
Oh we had done it alright…and “it” was give a gift that would make us dream of ripping a six inch, pink, plastic chattering, light up toy to shreds and then light the pieces on fire in the driveway while wildly dancing about.
That is what a Hatchimal makes me want to do.
The first thing we saw when we opened the little shit was a packet of directions letting us know each and every sound and color the damn thing makes as well as what each quirk means.
Green means hungry….tip it upside down and pat it’s butt.
Flashing green means it wants to play hide and seek. How the FUCK is that gonna work!
I knew that I would be spending the next forty-eight hours answering my daughter’s four million Hatchimal requests.
“What does yellow mean?”
“Is this teal?”
“I think it’s hungry, what do I do again?”
Over…and over…and over. A few hours into owning this and I was already devising ways for it to mysteriously meet it’s end.
The actual hatching of the menace is another really fun adventure in owning a Hatchimal. In order to get your little gem to make it’s way into the world that is it bent on destroying you will need to rub the egg until your hands go numb and you can no longer feel them. Of course my seven year old rubbed the egg for about two minutes before I had to take over and stroke it for fourth five more minutes. Forty-five minutes of watching the thing peck microscopic cracks into the egg in a circular motion will make you really start questioning your life choices.
How did this happen?
One day I was working in education using my fancy Master’s Degree to mold the young minds of America.
Now I’m sitting cross legged in the toy room, with frosting in my hair, rubbing the Hatchimal’s ass.
I never thought that a toy would surpass my disdain for Legos, train tables and Shopkins, yet it turns out that all toys of my past have been trumped by this hideous, neon colored freak on a leash.
Here is the good news folks. We lived through Furbies. We survived the Tamagotchi.
We will overcome the little bitch that is the Hatchimal.
Kristin McCarthy is a mom of four little girls and one giant fur-beast. She is the founder of the blog Four Princesses and The Cheese, editor at Suburban Misfit Mom and columnist at Practical Politicking. She spends the majority of her life handing out snacks and vacumming up as many toys as she can. She can be found writing for a number of publications including Suburban Misfit Mom, Sammiches and Psych Meds, For Every Mom, Red Tricycle, Bon Bon Break and Blunt Moms..