Babes in Toyland
I fought the toy invasion, and lost.
by Kevin Keck
December 25, 2008
My dad methodically examined the assembly instructions for the swingset; he compared the size of two screws, then looked at me:
"My job was to make sure you turned out okay. That wasn't easy work. It's not easy to walk that line between love and discipline. But I think I did all right, and I'm retired these days, so all I have to worry about is loving my grandchildren. The hard work is on you now. But I like to think I taught you a few things."
I stood inside a few hours later, sweaty and beat, looking out the window at my mom and dad pushing the children on the swings, listening to the improvised symphony of their shared laughter, and I considered what it was that my dad had taught me.
I don't recall ever going without something I needed. I remember plenty of gifts at Christmas and on birthdays, but only in a few instances do I precisely remember what it was that was given to me. I suspected that the case might be the same for my kids.
For the next several months, as those unwanted gifts kept rolling in, I would either intercept the gifts and reroute them to storage, or I would remove two old toys as one new one came in.
Even I was surprised at how much merchandise the grandparents were responsible for bringing into my home.
I have admit even I was surprised at how much merchandise the various grandparents were responsible for bringing into my home. Stacked up in the basement, it gave the impression that I was a failed, low-level gang member, responsible for the great Wal-Mart Toy Aisle Heist of '07.
By the time enough stuff had piled up, the twins were still too young to comprehend what was going on, and so I took my son downstairs and showed him what had amassed in the basement. His eyes lit up the way I imagine mine must have when my dad took me to the Mystical Attic of Toys.
"Oh my gosh! Look at all this! Is this all mine?"
"A lot of it," I said.
"Where are we going to put it all?"
"How would you feel if we just gave this all away to some kids who don't have any toys?"
Gavyn approached the stash of goods with all the reverence of an archaeologist stumbling upon a temple from a lost civilization, and removed a small water gun.
"Can I keep just this?" he asked.
I swept him up in my arms.
"Oh, my sweet boy!" I replied. "You can have anything you want."
©2008 Kevin Keck and Babble
About the Author
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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.
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