Toys

During the holiday shopping season, one of my favorite places to stop by is the toy store. My excuse is that I have to buy toys for my growing number of godchildren and my friends' children. But really, picking something for the kids only really takes one-half the time I spend browsing around. The other half of the time is, well, for me. Honestly, who wouldn't enjoy all the cheap contraptions that they've come up with? Strange robotics and colorful tea party sets. Justice League and Barbie outfits and paraphernalia. And why didn't they have those Disney princess outfits when I was growing up?

I suppose a psychologist would say that I probably have unresolved issues about toys. I probably do. Being the youngest of three children and ten grandchildren, most of my toys were hand-me-downs. So there was always some piece missing in the kitchen set. There was always something broken. And although my parents bought me new toys at Christmas, they did not think it was a good idea to splurge on expensive toys that I would probably grow out of in a couple of months. (A very wise decision, I might add.) I guess for some people, this paints a very deprived childhood. But back then, I was too busy to care.

I was too busy imagining worlds that my sisters and cousins came up with. I was too busy playing house in my grandmother's giant window sills. Too busy pretending to be cashiers at a department store, writing receipts for none existent items. Too busy raiding my grandparents' kitchen cabinet to 'open up a restaurant.' Too busy playing office in my grandparents' bathroom. Too busy looking for 'laway sa agta' and wrigglers to burn. (Kids can be so cruel!) Too busy getting scratches and wounds from falling down and getting up and running all over the place. There didn't seem to be enough time to notice that I didn't have as many toys as most kids.

But there was time to go to the beach on weekends. To pick up water bombs and watch them go off. There was enough time for afternoon siesta with my dad. For riding at the back of my sisters' bikes. For playing in my grandfather's trailer and traction bed. (We pretended they were ships.) For listening to my cousin and my sister sing Paper Roses. For road trips and belting out the wrong lyrics of the Carpenters' Top of the World. For waiting for my grandfather to clap his hands to call us in for dinner and lunch together. For fashion shows of my grandmother's clothes and beauty pageants complete with a paying audience and a cartolina crown. For listening to my sister reading a fairy tale in between her sniffles. (My sister seemed to have a perpetual cold.) For waiting for my mother to come home, smelling like the bank and feeling all cool from the air conditioner.

The sights, sounds, and smells of my childhood did not involve a lot of toys. But really, who needs all those toys when there were always things to do, worlds to imagine, playmates to fight with and a family to grow up with? Who needs memories of toys when there are memories of childhood?

When I really think about it, I guess I like going to toy stores because when I look at all the toys I could have had and look back at the childhood I did have, I always feel like I had the better deal.