It’s almost toy time. Sure, my 8-month-old has baby toys, but I’m talking the real deal here. What sweet little girl isn’t going to want G.I. Joe figures, the latest Star Wars action dolls, 72,000 Legos to make a fortress for your green army men and a battery-operated monster truck with a real steering wheel and authentic roadkill under the tire?
Isn’t that what all little girls grow up with?
OK, well maybe I’m bringing too much testosterone to the table. And it’s not a father longing for a little boy. All along I was hoping for a girl … on one condition: she would play army with me outside like I used to with my brother. There’s nothing better than the sound of fake gunfire, smoke bombs and kids yelling, “Hey, I shot you in the guts.” Ah, the joy of it.
She’s not there yet, but it’s coming.
Amelie is getting to be that age where she sits and plays … a bit. I guess I should clarify the definition of “plays” as it’s more like pulling books off her bookshelf and strewing them about her room like frisbees. This brings her great joy and she has a mighty laugh about it. Why is this so funny? Because I’m going to have to pick it all up! How could that not be funny?
Stinker!
She has toys, but they’re not real toys. They’re educational, they’re soft and cuddly or they’re say, I don’t know, a shoe she found in the study and decided to gnaw on. (Here we’ve got the only dog in the history of time who doesn’t chew things, and then we get the baby who wants to eat the sofa.)
I do enjoy playing with her, but how many times can you shake a rattling stuffed elephant? How many times can you throw a block at the dog before the animal mauls us both? How many times can we play reach-inside-my-shirt-and-pull-out-a-clump-of-chest-hair?
There’s only so much you can do with a pyramid of multi-colored rings. I talk to her as I stack them up: “First I put the blue one, then the green one, now …” at which point she descends on the partially stacked rings like Godzilla on Tokyo, scoops them all up and flings them into the air with such force that I end up with chipped teeth, broken windows and pieces embedded in the ceiling.
Then she laughs. Why? She knows I will have to pick it all up. (Or it could be the gap in my teeth she caused.)
But recently, she’s been less destructive, and almost more introspective when she plays. Before she throws something against the wall, or at the dog, she pauses to look at it, almost studying it. She looks the toy all over and fingers all parts of it. Is this my little girl growing up? Learning how to play? Gearing up for bigger toys? I can’t wait.
I don’t care what the toys are, as long as they’re true toys. I’ll play doll house. I’ll drive matchbox cars through a big loop-d-loop on the way over for tea, and have G.I. Joe dolls man a perimeter fence in case terrorists, or the big red bunny doll, want to start trouble.
I just want toys! Fun toys. Big toys. Imaginative toys. Toys that I can play with. Yes, me! I want soccer balls to kick and hoola hoops to hoola. I want computer games and Etch-and-Sketches. I want Play-dough and things with warnings about eating, or even touching your skin. I want magic kits and science experiments that explode and turn the white ceiling green. I want tricycles and Easy Bake ovens and boomerangs and card games. I want a stack of board games so high, you could make a shed out of it. I want toys … and to play. Then we’ll make a big mess and my little girl will have a good laugh knowing I have to pick them ALL up.