The Great Advent Toy Purge
When we decided to embrace the Santa mythology, I did not anticipate the intricate web of white lies and near-truths we would need to weave. Maybe not we, but "I" would be more accurate. I found myself trying to pick up toys in the family room, a chore I used to do while the boys were at nursery school, Clara cool and calm in my sling. These days, this chore is akin to an Istanbul bazaar, with all the noisy haggling: "Yes, I absolutely DO know where the Playmo pirate's hair is!" and "I still use that ream of bubble-wrap for padding with my gliders." I have become a ruthless, swifthanded phantom who separates the boardwalk-arcade detritus from my beloved HABA toys. (You had me at "spiel.") I root out our Waldorfy dolls with full-flowing heads of mohair when they fraternize with the bath ducks who are suffering from internal mold issues.
Anyway, to head off the bargaining, I found myself threatening that I was going to write Santa and tell him that the boys did not know how to take care of their toys, that they were overwhelmed with what they had and to suspend their gifts until next Christmas. Harsh, I know. I am not proud of that, I will confess. However, my threat has worked! We have arranged the family room toy-shelves into labeled and organized perfection.
Many of the little armed soldiers have gone to the trash not because of the war association but rather because they hurt like the dickens when you step on them. We gave fond farewells to homeless puzzles whose boxes had collapsed. Spiderman's jet ski, a strung out slinky, these things needed to go. The boys looked over their shoulders, was Santa looking in? The purging was gaining momentum, "Mom, maybe I don't need this," Manny offered a translucent bug ball he's had since his first birthday. The whole thing was triumphant but heart-wrenching at the same time. Most of our great things remain; the 10 Plagues wooden Tenpin Set, their legion of of Supers, a basket of figures we called "Teeny Fighters," with Ninjas the size of cherry tomatoes mixed in with little thrifted Iroquois fighters with their bows and quivers. The 1950's green metal baby doll crib is where Clara lays either "Antal, "Podol," "Shandal" or sometimes "Baby Joy." I don't think I will part with that until she or Cloe want it for their girls. Honestly, when we purge the toys, there are some things we will never give up--Santa's watchful eye be damned!
Rather than St. Nicholas, the patron saint of poor children who brought joy and trinkets into the ghettos, I think I am raising our kids to believe that Santa is a capricious, conditionally-loving, voyeur.
Anyway, to head off the bargaining, I found myself threatening that I was going to write Santa and tell him that the boys did not know how to take care of their toys, that they were overwhelmed with what they had and to suspend their gifts until next Christmas. Harsh, I know. I am not proud of that, I will confess. However, my threat has worked! We have arranged the family room toy-shelves into labeled and organized perfection.
Many of the little armed soldiers have gone to the trash not because of the war association but rather because they hurt like the dickens when you step on them. We gave fond farewells to homeless puzzles whose boxes had collapsed. Spiderman's jet ski, a strung out slinky, these things needed to go. The boys looked over their shoulders, was Santa looking in? The purging was gaining momentum, "Mom, maybe I don't need this," Manny offered a translucent bug ball he's had since his first birthday. The whole thing was triumphant but heart-wrenching at the same time. Most of our great things remain; the 10 Plagues wooden Tenpin Set, their legion of of Supers, a basket of figures we called "Teeny Fighters," with Ninjas the size of cherry tomatoes mixed in with little thrifted Iroquois fighters with their bows and quivers. The 1950's green metal baby doll crib is where Clara lays either "Antal, "Podol," "Shandal" or sometimes "Baby Joy." I don't think I will part with that until she or Cloe want it for their girls. Honestly, when we purge the toys, there are some things we will never give up--Santa's watchful eye be damned!
Rather than St. Nicholas, the patron saint of poor children who brought joy and trinkets into the ghettos, I think I am raising our kids to believe that Santa is a capricious, conditionally-loving, voyeur.
posted by Maria at
9:22 PM
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