I think many of us, at some point in our new-parent lives, have shared a moment like the one beautifully captured by cartoonist and illustrator R. Kikuo Johnson on the cover of The New Yorker.
For me, it stirred memories of my ex-wife, our tiny Maltese, and me collapsed on our beaten-up couch, watching our toddler stretch out on a red-and-black checkered mat — the kind supposedly designed to boost focus and attention. Back then, we were convinced high-contrast toys would unlock hidden baby genius. For a while, our living room looked like a black-and-white art installation with splashes of red.
Of course, that didn’t last. Within months, the floor vanished beneath a sea of toys — stuffed animals, musical gadgets, and plastic contraptions that promised to make our kid smarter, stronger, and possibly bilingual by age two. Let me clarify something: I bought toys I would’ve enjoyed as a toddler. My wife, on the other hand, stuck to toys and books that actually nurtured brain development. Together, we struck a balance — somewhere between baby Einstein and baby chaos.
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