Toy (bleeping!) land

Of course with the Christmas season at full speed, my thoughts turn to, of course all the crap my kid will hull in.  What toy will litter my living room, jab me in the foot, be eaten by the cat and/or Ben?  What toy will I find in my basement 5 years after he's moved out and be bugging him, as my mom and dad have my siblings and I, to PLEASE take it with him to HIS house the next time he visits? 

I've accepted the fact that I can't stop the gifts from coming.  I've accepted that there are parts of my house I won't see for years, buried beneath Birthday, Christmas's and "Just Because"s of the past; corners of rooms becoming archaeological dig sites by the time he's 18.  

I accept it because, yep, my parents did and are still asking me to take things with me I had long forgotten about.  So it's obligatory anyway.  I accept it because if he is happy, and getting him things makes whomever it might be happy, then who am I to deny happiness? 

Toys strewn across every inch of carpeting, could also be a teaching point, such as:  "Clean up your toys before daddy accidentally steps on them and breaks them!"  My dad stepped on things and broke them. I never saw the genius in that until now.  Mom probably helped in the stepping.  The thought of a destroyed toy, at any age, is enough motivation for most.  Unless you have a spoiled brat who say, "Go ahead, grandma will buy me another!" gaaaaaah! 

There are all sorts of positive thoughts to keep me sane, like:  "Well, when Ben buys us that new house, we can get the movers to box it all up." and "At least Ben got his third doctorate, paid off his college debt on his own and makes 6 digits."  oh, and "Ben did help us retire at 60 a few toys in the basement don't matter much."

Or, in another scenario, when no one else is in the room and Thomas the Tank Engine (and Friends) is stepped on for the 5th time that day, it might fly like a majestic reindeer down our decked halls.  

One of my favorite memories with my dad was taking him the toys where assembly was required.  We'd sit and put together, what looked to me, like a complicated mass of plastic parts which would eventually become a G.I. Joe jet or Heman's castle.  LEGOS were a great past-time for my dad and I, and eventually, my brother and I; we'd sit and create something using the directions or our imaginations as our guide.  Then dad or mom would step on one . . .