Plush Wilderness

From the archives. Originally published January, 31 2008.

This morning I broke my daughter’s heart, and I don’t even care.
That’s just the kind of woman I am.
Just what terrible thing, you may be asking, did I do to the poor child?
I instituted a new rule. “One in, one out.”
You see, our home is being fully overrun by stuffed animals. They have no natural predators and so have multiplied at an astonishing rate. Do you remember the old Disney film “White Wilderness”? The one where the lemming population grew to be too large so the lemmings hurled themselves off a cliff? (Sidenote: I have recently discovered the film to be a hoax. Here’s the scoop on that.)
Anyway, I have been waiting for a mass plush suicide attempt, but it appears as though it’s not going to happen.
Hence the “one in, one out” rule.
This morning, my daughter told me that she wants two more webk*nz so she can get some special online “feature item”. Whatever.
(Ok, I really must go off on a tangent here. The Ganz corporation is made up of evil geniuses. They have created a cute, fun, and wholesome website for kids. But it’s main purpose is not entertainment, education, or to develop creativity. It is marketing, plain and simple. The very concept is designed to make your little darlings dissatisfied with what they have and instead want, no need more, more, more! Tangent over.)
Anyway, this morning my child told me she wanted-needed more. First I (nicely) told her that I was not going to be buying any webkinz. Secondly, I (very sweetly) explained that she has reached the extreme limit on the amount of plush creatures this house will hold. For every new animal that comes in, be it a gift or with her own (ha) money, she will have to donate one of her old animals to charity.
Here is the rest of our conversation.

Her: That’s mean.
Me: That’s life.
Her: I don’t want to give away any of my animals.
Me: You don’t have to. You can keep them all. Just don’t get any new ones.
Her: (Tearing up) Can’t I just put some in the attic?
Me: Nope. Sorry, Honey. We have reached the limit.
Her: But-
Me: (Practicing diversionary tactics) Is that the bus I hear? Hurry and grab your coat.

So, what do you think? Was I unbearably cruel? What would you think if I told you I don’t even feel guilty?
Remember when you were a kid and you really wanted something? Like a doll, or a bike, or a snoopy Sno-Cone Machine? Do you remember dropping hints to grandma? Writing to Santa? Going to the store to look at it? Maybe even saving your allowance for it?
And then when you finally got it do remember how much you loved it?
It’s possible that I am being nostalgic for something that didn’t really exist and kids then really weren’t that different from kids now, but I don’t think so.
For example, my daughter does not know the joy of browsing the toy isle just to see what is there. I loved going to Bi-Mart with my mom and just getting to look at the toys. But when my girl sees something she wants and can’t have it right now, she’s sad. So she chooses to not even look unless she knows she’s getting something. I commend her for that, but I truly feel like she is missing out on something. That bittersweet feeling of wanting and waiting and dreaming.
My daughter has so much more than I did. I think it’s hard for anything to be truly special in the face of so much abundance. Her kid culture (friends, tv, webk*nz) tells her that she has to have more. One Littlest Pet Shop pet is no fun. You have to have the whole set. When does it end?
Ok, before you start blasting me with, “Well, where did she get all this stuff, huh?” or telling me how spoiled she is, please know that one-yes, I accept blame for bringing in all the stuff and two-she’s no more spoiled than her peers and less than many of them.
Even so, I am going to make a concentrated effort to reduce the amount of consumerism taking place in this house. To do more with what we have and not look for something new and shiny to make us happy.
Last week we took all of her broken crayons and melted them in muffin tins. The “new” big crayons were a huge hit. She thought I was sooo clever. (Stop. I am not. Ok, maybe a little…) It was simple and it was fun. More fun, I dare say, than a brand new box of crayolas. What we had on hand was more than good enough.
Maybe with the “one in, one out” rule I can bring that feeling into our Plush Wilderness.
If not, I’ll be looking for a film crew and a high cliff.