One of the consolations of parenthood is that toys return to your life. I hadn’t realized how much I missed them, but here they are again- little totems that you endow with a fraction of your imagination.

I know adults, men mostly, who still buy toys for themselves. I understand the desire to own a little bit of something you love, to open the package and run your fingers over it or put it on the shelf to admire, but I rarely let myself indulge in toys. I may purchase books and music, but never toys. 

I restrict myself in part because I think it’s good to grow up and leave things behind. It’s oddly satisfying to leave things and drop habits or people that you’ve outgrown. It gives you room to grow further and allows for the sharp pleasure of nostalgia when you come across them later in life. 

I’m also leery of them. I fear that by endowing them with my imagination I have crafted little souls for them and therefore become responsible for their well-being. Having done so, I may never be rid of them. It’s too much to bear. Let my children do it for me while they are young and imagination is cheap.

Image source: Apartment Therapy