Twin dad's guide to the baby shark toy phase

It's 4:12 in the morning. I'm standing in the hallway wearing nothing but mismatched socks and a pair of boxers that have seen significantly better days, violently negotiating with a water-activated plastic fish. The fish is singing. It has been singing since one of the twins lobbed it into the half-full bath three hours ago, and because it only turns off when completely bone dry, the lingering humidity of our London flat is keeping the sensor alive. If you take nothing else away from my sleep-deprived ramblings as a father of two-year-old girls, let it be this: whatever you do, don't buy the aquatic, battery-operated versions of these things unless you're emotionally prepared to perform late-night interrogations on a piece of plastic that doesn't possess a power switch.

I used to be a journalist. I used to interview local politicians and write slightly pretentious columns about infrastructure. Now, I spend my days trying to figure out why toddler A prefers the pink 'Mommy' character while toddler B will absolutely lose her mind if the yellow 'Baby' version isn't maintaining direct eye contact with her while she eats her morning porridge. The entire ecosystem of baby shark toys has invaded our home with the kind of ruthless efficiency I frankly admire, even as it slowly erodes my sanity.

Why this specific song has ruined my Spotify wrapped

At some point, an eager relative will gift your child one of the official interactive tablets or singing cubes, proudly telling you how educational it's because the packaging mentioned something about cognitive development and bilingual pronunciation. I'm fairly certain my girls aren't learning the nuances of the French language from a plastic board; they just like hitting the buttons repeatedly to watch my left eye twitch.

I read an article recently—or perhaps I just hallucinated it while staring at the ceiling at 3am waiting for Calpol to kick in—suggesting that the repetitive tempo of the song actually appeals to a baby's developing brain because it's predictable and easy to process. This makes perfect sense, assuming your goal is to raise a child who requires a constant, 115-beats-per-minute soundtrack to successfully load a piece of toast into their mouth. The plush versions of these characters are slightly less offensive, I suppose, if you don't mind them acting as a highly works well sponge for drool, spilled milk, and whatever sticky substance toddlers naturally exude from their pores.

What the GP actually said about the noise

Here's a fun game you can play when you become a parent: try to find the tiny, microscopic screwdriver required to open the battery compartment of a noisy toy while your child is screaming at you because the toy has stopped making the noise. It's an exercise in extreme psychological endurance.

But the battery compartments are actually no joke. During a routine checkup where I was mostly trying to prevent the twins from dismantling the examination room, our paediatrician casually mentioned that those little flat button batteries—the ones powering half of these musical books and pocket-sized singing cubes—are basically ticking time bombs. She told me that if a baby swallows one, the electrical current can cause severe tissue burns in their throat or stomach in under two hours. I don't know the exact science behind it, but her warning instantly upgraded my baseline parenting anxiety from 'mildly stressed' to 'frantically supergluing every battery door shut'.

And then there's the sheer volume. The World Health Organization apparently recommends that children's toys shouldn't exceed 85 decibels to protect their developing eardrums, though frankly, having the theme tune blast at 6 AM feels closer to a jet engine taking off in my living room. My entirely unscientific solution is to take a piece of thick, clear packing tape and stick it directly over the toy's speaker holes, which safely muffles the sound to a level where I can still hear my own thoughts without triggering a toddler meltdown because I permanently disabled their favourite singer.

The dark side of the evening bath routine

Let's talk about the bath squirts. You know the ones. They look innocent enough, little rubberised sharks that you squeeze to shoot water across the tub. I had about five of them lined up on the edge of our bathtub, thinking I was doing a brilliant job at sensory play.

Then another dad at the playground—looking equally as tired as me, drinking a flat white like it was water in the desert—told me to cut one open. I took a pair of kitchen scissors to the blue 'Daddy' shark that evening and discovered a horrifying, thick layer of black mould lining the entire inside of the toy. Apparently, any bath toy with a hole in it traps moisture that never fully dries, breeding the kind of toxic sludge you'd expect to find in a biohazard facility, not in the water where your child is currently blowing bubbles. I threw the entire lot in the bin right then and there. If you're currently rethinking every brightly coloured plastic purchase you've ever made, you might want to casually browse Kianao's wooden toys collection to mentally cleanse your palate.

Finding an escape route through quieter alternatives

Eventually, the sheer volume of plastic in our flat became overwhelming, and my wife and I made a pact to slowly transition the girls away from toys that required AA batteries and a paracetamol prescription to tolerate.

This is where we seriously found some success with Kianao's stuff. When the teething phase hit its absolute peak—the point where both girls were gnawing on the coffee table legs like highly emotional beavers—I handed one of them the Bear Teething Rattle Wooden Ring Sensory Toy. I was skeptical because it wasn't bright yellow and didn't sing, but the combination of the untreated beechwood ring and the soft crochet cotton really calmed her down. She just sat there, quietly chewing on the wooden ring while staring out the window. No electronic bassline. No flashing lights. Just peace. It was beautiful. I almost cried.

We also tried the Bubble Tea Teether, which is made of food-grade silicone and is genuinely very clever in its design. It's supposed to be brilliant for swollen gums because you can chuck it in the fridge for a bit. If I'm being brutally honest, though, twin A stared at it for roughly four seconds, realised it wasn't shaped like an oceanic predator, and launched it over the sofa. Twin B loves it, but twin A remains fiercely loyal to the shark aesthetic, so your mileage may vary depending on how brainwashed your specific toddler is.

When they finally started showing interest in stacking things rather than just throwing them, the Gentle Baby Building Block Set became a massive lifesaver in our house. They're wonderfully squishy, they've little animal symbols on them, and most importantly, when I inevitably step on one in the dark hallway at 3 AM while carrying a cup of milk, it simply collapses under my foot instead of sending shooting pains up my spine like a plastic fin would.

Surviving the phase with your dignity intact

Look, the baby shark phase is basically a rite of passage for modern parents. You can try to fight it, but eventually, you'll find yourself unconsciously tapping your foot to the rhythm while waiting in line at the post office. The trick isn't to banish it entirely—because toddlers can smell fear and will only demand it more—but to dilute the madness with toys that don't assault your senses.

Instead of buying another plastic nightmare that sings in two languages, try taping over the speaker of the ones you already own while slowly introducing quieter wooden alternatives into their playmat until they hopefully forget the water-activated fish ever existed.

Before you inevitably cave and buy another piece of licensed merchandise that will haunt your dreams, do yourself a massive favour and explore our teething toys collection to find something that won't require a tiny screwdriver to operate.

The messy reality of toddler toys (FAQ)

How on earth do you clean the bath versions without them going mouldy?

Honestly? I don't buy anything with a hole in it anymore. My health visitor warned me about the mould issue, and once you see the black sludge inside a rubber squirt toy, you can't unsee it. If you absolutely must have them, you're supposed to suck up a mixture of white vinegar and water, shake it around, and then aggressively squeeze every single drop out after every bath. Who has the energy for that? Just buy solid silicone toys or cups they can pour water from.

Are the sound books any better than the plush toys?

Marginally, only because the speaker is usually embedded in the cardboard and sounds slightly muffled to begin with. But they still run on those terrifying button batteries, so I spend half my life checking that the tiny screw holding the battery door closed hasn't magically loosened itself. Also, the pages will get ripped within a week anyway.

Can you replace the batteries in the water-activated swimming ones?

Technically yes, but getting the watertight seal back perfectly is a nightmare. I tried it once, thought I did a brilliant job, dropped it back in the bath, and watched it immediately short-circuit and die while my daughter looked at me like I had just betrayed her deepest trust. Better to let it run out of juice and tell them the fish is sleeping.

What's a quiet alternative for a kid obsessed with the song?

Lean into the animal aspect rather than the song aspect. I started telling my girls that all animals live in the same ocean, and handed them wooden blocks and crochet bears instead. It takes a few days of resistance, but eventually, their short little attention spans pivot. Anything tactile that they can safely chew on when their molars are coming through will usually distract them from the lack of electronic music.