Do you remember, as a child, wondering if your toys came alive while you were sleeping? Well, I am a grown woman and I still wonder! I believe that they do come alive; I also believe that they mate like bunnies and breed new toys! Seriously, how else do you explain all the toys in my house? They are evil, evil beings that must be stopped.
Think about all of the various stresses of your life. I bet that most of them can be traced back to toys. Messy house? Toys. Screaming, fighting children? Toys. Throbbing pain in the sole of your foot? Stepped on a mother-f*&%ing toy! (In my case, there was also an impromptu parent/teacher conference to discuss my daughter’s sudden affinity for the word “mother-f*&%ing!” Look... my swear-o-meter turns off when Barbie’s high heel is lodged a half inch into my heel. Of course, I told the teacher that she learned it from watching reruns of The Chappel Show with her father. When in doubt, blame your husband!)
When I look around my house, I always find myself wondering, “How did we get this many toys?” There seems to be an infinite supply. I feel like I am always packing away “old” toys to make room for new ones; most of which will soon be packed away themselves. Our basement is filled with bins and bins of barely used toys. Of course, we all know where they come from... holidays, birthdays, special occasions, finally pooping on the potty! Seriously, in our house, almost anything will get you a toy.
We’re also a mixed culture family. My husband is Jewish and I have a Christian background. This means we celebrate EVERYTHING. And EVERYTHING seems to get a present (or eight)! Not to mention all the stuff other people give our kids. Every time they go to a birthday party, they come home with a bag full of cheap, plastic crap! Each of my kids has about 20 other kids in their class. Each one has a birthday party EVERY year. That’s 40 bags of plastic crap we get a year!
I hate to use this expression; it makes me feel very old. BUT... when I was a kid, we didn’t have this many toys. We also didn’t have a birthday party every year. At most, it was every other year and that was only the super-spoiled kids. And, not everyone left the party with a goodie bag. There were a few “prizes.” If you were the last man standing in “Simon Says” or you pinned the tail right in the very middle of the donkey’s ass, then you got a toy. Otherwise, you left empty handed, which meant no extra mess for your mom. (Unless you count the times you barfed up cake and ice cream all over the stairs. That was just a one time mess though and when she stepped in it... it didn’t hurt!)