Spuddies — Unlimited Fun in the Sack

There are only two “Spuddies” left on the porch -- the one that looks like a six-legged hedgehog and the one with four twigs sticking out of its head.

Spuddies are my sons’ answer to the question, “What do you do with a ten pound sack of potatoes, an unlimited amount of sticks and a few hours to kill on a camping trip?” In this case, they made ten little men (and one hedgehog) using Idahos, sticks, and, for one scary Spuddy, bits of glass for teeth. They brought all eleven of them home to show me and so I did what any proud mother would do. I posed them on the porch for a picture (see attached).

I like the Spuddies. I like them because they’re something that my offspring made with their own hands and I’m a hopeless fan of every hand knit potholder, ceramic dish and woven basket that my children bring me. I believe that this is due to a chemical reaction that happens to women after they have their first child and so it’s nothing for which I have to apologize or for which I need therapy. I accept that I will always gush over my kids’ handcrafted items, the same way that I accept that I will always only wear things with elastic waistbands.

I also like the Spuddies because they’re proof that my kids’ brains haven’t completely turned to cooked cereal after too much time in front of the computer. There they were, out in the woods with nothing to do, and they scrounged raw materials and built something. If they can make Spuddies it means that the synapses are still firing, their imaginations are still in working order, video games have not turned them into mindless drooling zombies. It’s nice to know that if my kids were stranded on an island somewhere, with no digital comforts, they’d still manage to find ways to keep themselves amused. It also means that they’d starve to death for the sake of playing with their food, but that’s another worry.

Spuddies are also concrete evidence that my children aren’t grown up yet. When you’re an adult and you see a sack of potatoes you think about food, or work, depending on whether you’re the eater of the food or the preparer of the food. Only a child with nothing on his mind except how to have as much fun as possible in the next couple hours could look at a sack of spuds and see potential action figures. If my kids were as mature as they’re always telling me they are, they would have been too embarrassed to make toys out of vegetables, much less bring the collection home to show their mother.

There are one or two drawbacks to your kids making their own toys. For one thing, they don’t come with manufacturer’s warnings attached, like “This Spuddy has glass shards for teeth. It is not safe at any age. Do not leave on the floor where your mother will step on it. Throw it away immediately.” The boys felt bad about my foot and promised not to experiment anymore with sharp edged models. Still, it was great lesson in applying direct pressure to stop the bleeding and I’m sure I can use their residual guilt for extra chores next week. If they show signs of slacking I can just start limping again.

I think that the Spuddies would make a terrific family camping game, except that of course, there already is Mr. Spud Head or similar on the market. We bought one years ago. It’s plastic and the parts are mostly gone. Myself, I prefer this organic version to the one that comes in a box. With Spuddies, the number of toys you can make is only limited by the number of potatoes in the sack and what you’ve got available to stick into them. And the best part is, when the kids get bored with them, you can pull out all their arms and legs and facial features and cook and eat them. The Spuddies, I mean.

I don’t think we’ll be dining on this batch of Spuddies, however. I suspect that the nine that are missing are somewhere behind the hedges that surround my porch. Probably I could find them if I looked hard enough, but it’s better to save those under-the-yews-and-in-amongst-the-creepy-crawlies searches for the spring, when all the eight legged critters are still sluggish from the cold. Besides, if they’re buried deep enough in the mulch, by this time next year I may be harvesting at least one bag of potatoes. If I’m lucky, my boys will still be young enough at heart to make Spuddies out of them.

Quality time

Today was the usual grab the stack of newspapers from the porch, the wagon from the garage and a pair of drink boxes and cookies and run out to the elementary school to pick the boys up from the bus stop kind of day. It's a good break for me. I fold the papers and listen to Nick and Sam tell me about their respective days at school. A little island of quality time in a hectic sea of work-related stress.

Nick is first in the car and I ask him how it went.

"Terrible," he says.

I immediately suspect the worst but I try to see if I can put it in perspective for him. "Was it a terrible day the whole day long, or just in the morning? Or maybe just before you left?"

"The whole day."

"What happened?"

"Some kid knocked me over."

"On the playground?"

He nods.

I think about how some people’s kids shouldn’t be allowed out on a leash. "What did you do?"

"Told the aide."

Relieved he didn't haul off and punch somebody, I praise his levelheadedness.

"What else happened?"

"I had to stay in for study class."

Dreading the advent of another behavior report, I ask, "How come?"

"We were writing something in class and I didn't finish it."

My heart plummets. "Oh, no, Nick, you're kidding."

At this point, Nick, carefully noting my reaction to this recital of the day’s events, can’t contain himself any longer. He starts laughing uproariously, holding his belly and rocking in his seat, shouting "Pulled your leg! Pulled your leg! Hahahahahahaha! You fall for it every time! Hahahahahaha."

"I hate you, Nick," I say between gritted teeth.

Now Sam announces that he's got his finger stuck in the bolt hole for the trailer hitch which has been rolling around on the floor of my car since spring. It weighs about 10 pounds and he's starting to panic because he can't free his now swollen and hurting finger.

I sigh a long suffering sigh and tell him to come with me. We leave Nick in the car and walk into the school in search of a soap dispenser. Everyone we meet along the way smiles a greeting. Nobody notices that my son is attached to a trailer hitch even though Sam is doing his best to bring it everyone's attention by saying things like, "It''s not my fault," and "It was an accident."

I locate a classroom with a sink and dribble soap on Sam's finger. Then, a little twist, and voila! he's free. He smiles a relieved smile and I begin to see how I can use this to get even with Nick. "Put your finger back in the hole and follow me," I tell him.

We get back to the car, Sam looking convincingly morose and me more grim than usual.

Nick asks, "What's going on?" and I tell him we have to take Sam to the hardware store so we can buy a hacksaw to cut his hand off with. "What?" "Yeah, the soap didn't work." "You're kidding, right? Are you really going to cut his hand off?" He's a little apprehensive but more clearly fascinated by the idea, which is right where I want him.

"Hahahahahaha! Got you! Hahahahaha! You should've seen the look on your face! Hahahahahaha!"

"Aarrrgghh!"

I love quality time.