Last night, Chad and I were able to witness God pouring out his healing on a broken family. This situation has been heavy on our hearts for the last couple of months. It was one of those seemingly hopeless situations that I, in some ways, had given up on. But God came through and did what many thought was impossible. We worship a God of healing and of second (and third, and fourth, etc.) chances, and we got to be part of a family being put back together last night. We love you, H, L, and B!
And now for a meaningless rant about the evils of Polly Pocket:
Polly Pocket's taking over
By Deana Nall
Published January 25, 2006
Chairman and CEO,
Dear Mr. Eckert,
So you’re in charge of a huge toy company. Sounds like fun.
First, let me say that, most of the time, I love toys. One great thing about being a parent is having the excuse to play with toys again. Well into my thirties, I have been known to dress Barbies, build Ello houses and bake sugar cookies in an Easy Bake Oven — and not necessarily when my daughters are around.
But I must complain about one of your company’s products. It’s Polly Pocket. She’s taking over my house.
We started out with just one Polly Pocket — a cute little blond-ponytailed doll who lived in a plastic suitcase that opened up into a trendy dorm room-looking thing.
I’m not sure how this happened — maybe Ken escaped from the Barbie box — but Polly began reproducing. At an alarming rate. The Polly Pockets quickly outgrew the suitcase/dorm room and spread out all over my daughter’s bedroom.
Now there are colonies of them living in her toy box, under her bed and on the shelves in her closet. They have also moved down the hall into the bathroom. A few have even made it all the way through the house to my bathroom. I’ve noticed they are attracted to bathtubs.
If it were just the dolls, the problem would be bad enough. But each Polly Pocket comes with clothes. Lots of them. Some Polly Pockets even have little hangers for hanging the clothes up.
But the shoes are the worst.
I grew up with Barbies and I remember how tiny and annoying (and prone to getting sucked up in the vacuum cleaner) their little shoes were. But Polly Pocket dolls are about a tenth the size of Barbies, which means their shoes are nearly microscopic. In fact, I believe a person could inhale a Polly Pocket shoe and never even know it.
One day they’ll perform an autopsy on some poor old woman — a mother who raised a houseful of girls — and they’ll find her lungs to be full of Polly Pocket shoes and coordinating purses and hats. Then you’ll get sued. Just thought I should warn you.
Anyway, I don’t know what your company has done to the Polly Pockets to cause them to multiply in this manner, but I’m asking you to do something to stop it. I saw them convening in my daughter’s room the other day. It looked like they were trying to form some kind of government. So the sooner, the better.
In the meantime, I’m taking action. I’ve armed myself with about a dozen of those clear plastic storage boxes. Late one night, when my children are asleep, I’m going to go in and incarcerate every Polly Pocket I can find. Then I’ll stack their little Sterilite prisons high up in the closet.
And I’m going to keep Ken far, far away.
Thank you for your time,