Babes in Toyland
I fought the toy invasion, and lost.
by Kevin Keck
December 25, 2008
And that, as every parent knows, is the cruel truth about the imagination of children — they're fine with the box. Parents are the people who feel ashamed to have their children seen wearing a pan on their head and waving a stick. This dawned on me when my son turned five — friends and family showed up, arms loaded with gifts as though they were paying a visit to the newborn Messiah. He tore through the gifts like a fruit fly inspecting a dessert buffet, then he and his friends ran around the house with the empty gift bags on their heads, running into walls and laughing hysterically.
That night I took all of his gifts into the basement and put them in storage as an experiment. He never missed them.
Shortly after the twins were born, I set up a 529 savings plan for all three children. I'd been quietly depositing a portion of my meager earnings from writing in the accounts each month, and with the understanding that my children were on the verge of becoming spoiled with Happy Meal toys and so much Hannah Montana merchandise that it would make a sultan weep, I turned to the various grandparents for help.
"You're ruining these kids."
I wrote a letter — an eloquent epistle that called upon my professional skills of linguistic persuasion. I presented the case that my children could each break one toy per week and it would be years before they ran out. I reminded the grandparents that an education and future financial stability was the best gift one could give (this coming from a man who took out a student loan in graduate school to pay for phone sex and an antique pool table). I closed by reminding them that toys would be abandoned some day, but precious memories with their grandparents would endure forever.
It was supposed to be overcooked sentimentalism — grandparents usually tend to fall for that sort of business, and I felt quite successful after a week passed without the arrival of new dolls or any Matchbox cars. Two weeks after my letter, my dad showed up with a swingset in the back of his pickup truck.
"Come on," he said. "Let's put this baby together."
As I angrily bolted pieces of the swingset in place, I ranted at my dad.
"What's wrong with you? How can you ignore the wishes of Patrice and me? You're ruining these kids. They're not going to value anything."
©2008 Kevin Keck and Babble
About the Author
|
|
Related Articles
|
|
Kevin Keck is the author of the memoir Are You There God? It's Me. Kevin., and a collection of personal essays, Oedipus Wrecked. Visit him at www.thekeck.com.
|
|
|
-
by Kevin Keck
What I learned from my father's nightstand.
-
by Rebecca Barry
Pregnancy changes everything.
-
by Jennifer Baumgardner
Step #12: Bribe son with Tic Tacs.
|
