Saratoga News Collection of toys on floor reflected children's stages Debbie Farmer I realized my life had become overrun with toys the day I lost my children in the living room under the erector set. As I frantically searched in the place they had disappeared, I wondered what the hordes of plastic blocks, race cars and Barbie vacation accessories said about my parenting skills. When did a few "educational necessities" multiply into a collection rivaling the inventory of Toys R Us? I decided my children's many toy phases were responsible. My daughter's first phase, the "Speed Racer" stage, started shortly after birth. She was content as long as she was on the go. I bought any toy that moved, or made her think she was moving. She had a swing with a G-force equivalent to the space shuttle's rocket boosters, and a motor that jiggled her crib as if she were driving the pace car in the Indianapolis 500. During this phase, we wore out five mobiles and used up so many batteries that EverReady stock rose 15 percent. My son began his "King of the Road" phase as soon as he was old enough to say "choo-choo." I bought every type of train I could find and laid more wooden track than the workers on the transcontinental railroad. I didn't worry when he was out of my sight--all I had to do was follow the line of track to find him. This was a pleasant phase until a miniature Amtrak derailed on a journey across the dining room table and landed in my china cabinet. My son lost interest in trains around the same time my daughter discovered Barbie. My husband pointed out that if I had timed my pregnancies better I could've bought the Train Engineer Barbie and covered two phases at once. For months we couldn't walk barefoot in the house for fear of being stabbed by an accessory. I lived in constant fear I'd have to be rushed to the hospital to get Cinderella Barbie's glass slipper removed from my heel. I spent hours putting Blossom Barbie back into her petals and Bubbling Mermaid Barbie into her fins because I wasn't sure how viewing a nude, plastic, 12-inch blonde with a 1-inch waist would affect my son in later years. Both children entered the Disney phase after our vacation at the Magic Kingdom. The only true fantasy about this phase was the price of the merchandise at the store. My son wouldn't leave the house without his mouse ears, and my daughter sang "It's a Small World" so many times I started speaking in Disney. Each day, when my husband came home, I was so happy to see someone over 4 years old and not animated that I eagerly threw my arms around him. "My prince!" I cried. "What a nice welcome!" he said. "How was your day?" "Zippity-do-dah," I said, giving him a kiss. The most destructive phases were my son's constructor phase (when he dug up my flower beds to make a parking lot for twin Lego skyscrapers) and his GI Joe phase (when he seized his sister's toys, occupied her room and locked her in the closet as a prisoner of war). One day, when my children were in the backyard playing, I realized that buying toys had become my definition of a good parent. I looked around the house, trying to remember what color the carpet used to be, and I picked up some of the older toys and put them in a large plastic bag. When I went back into the house my children were staring, open-mouthed at the floor. "What's that?" My daughter pointed to the floor. "The carpet." "Cool. But, where are all the toys?" "We're going to give them to other children, who don't have as many." They both looked around the room and thought for a moment. Then I suggested, "Let's take our lunches to the park and have a picnic. Then we can feed the ducks and take a walk around the lake." When they looked at me and smiled, I knew I didn't have to buy toys to be a good parent after all. [ Back to Contents Page | Saratoga News Home Page | Archives ] This article appeared in the Saratoga News, January 20, 1999. ©1999 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.