What am I lobbying for, you ask? Well, any number of factors. Ideally the toy I want her to choose can't be too expensive, too big, too noisy, too cheaply made, too likely to be covered in lead paint, too suggestively violent, too surely never to be played with after today, and--due to the hundreds of plastic eyes that peer down at me from the shelves when I walk into my daughter's room--for god's sakes, not a stuffed animal.
Instead, I usually try to steer her toward a toy that is both educational and unique; maybe one that teaches reading or requires logic; perhaps a fair trade toy, hand-made by a blind artisan from a poverty ravaged third world country. The problem is, even though I can't seem to stop myself from doing it, this politicking, it feels wrong. It's manipulative, it's undignified, and worse, it's prone to backfire.
Recently, we were visiting friends out of state and we gave my daughter a little money to spend on a vacation toy. We stopped into a toy store on a tourist strip in a Swiss chalet riddled little town in the mountains. As she browsed through the store, I trailed behind her dropping ever so subtle comments. "Whoa, that one is expensive." "Doesn't Amelia have that one? She never plays with it." "Hmm...that one...kind of creepy."
Suddenly, she spotted the Beanie Babies, and before I could object, she plunged her hand into the bin and pulled out a Melman, the clumsy but lovable giraffe from Madagascar.
"I want him," she informed me.
Game on. I began to blather through a littany of excuses: "...so many stuffed animals...," "...already have a giraffe...," "...so many other cool things to choose from...," blah, blah, blah. I gently steered her around the store, pointing out cool arts and craft kits, Playmobile sets, and my piece de resistance: a real wooden ukelele. To no avail. She wanted Melman. Our friends were already outside the store waiting for us. It was time to play hard ball.
I launched into my most passionate anti-stuffed animal tirade, estimating the number of currently owned stuffed animals (approximately 242), the relative non-excitement of a stuffed toy, and various pieces of past evidence that pointed to a pattern of quickly fleeting enthusiasm for said stuffed friends, but it only made her cling more fiercely to her convictions. Suddenly, she had an idea that she sincerely believed solved everything. I didn't want her to get Melman? Okay, then she would choose this guy:
(incidentally his name is Buck, and he hails from Ice Age 3)."He's perfect," she explained to me. She listed the reasons why: he's kind of cute, wears a funny hat, and she definitely didn't have a one-eyed dino-hunting weasel in her collection. I examined this little creature, wondering what it was about this prehistoric varmint with a freakish underbite that appealed to my daughter. At that moment, I saw my friend peek in, wondering if we were just about ready. Awash in regret and defeat, I sulked my way to the cash register, envisioning our future life with Buck: the shopping trips, the car rides, the fruitless scouring of the house looking for this weasel before we could head out the door. Wishing that I had just shut my trap and welcomed the much cuter Melman, I paid for the little rodent.
I reflected on the incident as I watched my daughter contentedly play with her new toy on the ride home. I realized that there were lessons in this for me about open-mindedness, letting my child make her own decisions, and relinquishing control on issues that don't matter at all in the grand scheme of things.
That night, my daughter and I, and Buck, snuggled in bed after storytime. Feeling ashamed of my petty attempt at ruling her world, I tried to admire this little toy and see him through her eyes. As I searched for the perfection that she saw in him, my daughter sucked her thumb and gazed thoughtfully at her new friend. "I hate his teeth," she said. "Will you cut them off?"
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