Christmas is right around the corner and I’m already plotting how to get rid of the toys. Toys are totally anxiety producing for me. New Toy equals New Mess in my mind. Where’s it going to go? Do we already have one just like it? How long will my daughters play with it? How much fucking noise will it make and for how long?
I can just imagine the huge pile of toys awaiting my children on Christmas Eve at Abuela’s house. As they unwrap, I practically have a panic attack. “Ohhhh that’s a wonderful dancing whirly noise maker with NO on/off switch!” I can’t help but think. “There’s no way they market tested this piece of crap.”
What I call “my toy anxiety” gets very intense sometimes. It’s not just the mess. I also start feeling guilty about all the children that don’t have any, especially when faced with a Christmas sized pile.
My parents lived in Africa for 10 years, so I grew up listening to stories about toy poverty. Village children would split a doll into pieces so that all of them could take a piece home. My parents made me give away a toy or two every Christmas. It wasn’t in preparation for the onslaught. We were supposed to select a toy we loved for the poor children of the world so they, too, could experience the same love we had for the toy.
One year I cheated. I couldn’t bear to give away my favorite toys, so I selected a doll with spidery legs that always gave me the creeps. Later I cried about the doll feeling so rejected. The guilt still haunts me, so I swore never to inflict this particular brand of parenting onto my children.
But with toy poverty in mind, I start denying any requests for new toys about four months before Christmas. Four months is an eternity. “I’ll put that on your Christmas list” only goes so far. I try my best to avoid
the toy aisles wherever we are, but usually end up having to put on my hard-ass mama face and careen through the check-out line before the 4-year-old tears start.
In preparation for the Christmas stash, I also make sure the bottom of our armoire is all cleared out. Usually crammed with dolls, farms, and run-down battery toys, the armoire serves as a perfect toy limbo land. When the number of baby dolls goes over five and three of them have been in the closet for more than a couple of months, my anxiety meter goes off. A trip to the local charity gets put on the “To Do” list for the week.
The more obnoxious Christmas toys will somehow get lost. “Hmmmm, I don’t know where that one went to . . . maybe it’s at Abuela’s house.” Familiar with the intricacies of ebay, my 4-year-old makes me swear I didn’t sell it.
Some of the new toys will indeed remain at Abuela’s house. “This one is perfect for when they come over to play!” This seems to fool my mother-in-law temporarily. It buys me about a month before she shows up with it at our house. One time she duped me. She sent the kid-sized battery operated car over in my brother-in-law’s van. When I refused it, he said that my mother-in-law said my daughter wanted it at her house. Nice try, but I sent him right back to his mom’s house with it.
The remaining toys will be tolerated at our house until they lose their sparkle and appeal. Then they’ll be promptly donated to the local charity. That task became a tricky business once my first daughter passed the age of two.
The last time she accompanied me on my glee-inducing trip, the leg of her baby doll was sticking up out of the donation sack. The moment she saw it, her lower lip went out and the tears started, sobs actually. She wailed, “My babyyyy! My babyyyy!” I relented, retrieving the baby doll. My daughter clutched it to her crying, “I like all my toys!”
“Shit! Can you say guilty?” I felt like the worst mother in the world. I pictured hordes of newspapers, antique toys and old moldy shoes in my daughter’s house someday. The coveted baby dolls filling the kitchen cupboards and anxiety in her eyes when I come to visit. All because her mother gave away her toys.
The guilt didn’t last long though. Another six months, a birthday and Christmas and we were once again overflowing with un-played-with toys. This time I waited until she was fast asleep. My husband totally disagreed with this strategy. He argued on behalf of our daughter, glaring at me while I packed up the bag.
The next day I ran an “errand” while my husband, shaking his head in disapproval, stayed with our daughter. She never missed the toys. Never once asked for one I had given away, happy in her childhood innocence.
I had found a way to de-toy my home without creating future neuroses in my child. As for me, I admit it. My neurosis was also pacified, at least until the next Christmas.
Top Tip #12
Tutus and tiaras are for Mamas! See how lovely your child feels in them? They will have the same effect on you. Put one or the other (or both) on to clean the house, cook dinner, or de-clutter and feel the fairy effects take you over . . .
For an easy way to make a tutu for the baby or you, check out:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/amb rosialove/522118984/