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My mother, to whom I owe any diligence or self-reliance I may possess, is a sworn enemy of dust and an apostle of the hospital corner — the sort of person who blanches at the sight of dirty laundry and yells indignantly about abandoned cups.

“I can do better. . . . See? That’s a hospital corner.”

The way the toy incorporates digital learning feels, to me, weirdly reminiscent of my adult life: I often use the Web to look up things like “how to open wine without a bottle opener” or “how to fold a hospital corner.”

Then she turned to McDowell Sutro: "Will you take those to the Post-Graduate Hospital, corner of Second Avenue and Twentieth Street, for half a dollar?"

Today though, back on that hospital corner, Astrel Jacques is no longer encouraged.