Old Toys: A Fever-Induced Ramble

Hi!

Today is the first day in a week that I haven't had a fever, and I just drank some coffee and have more energy than I know what to do with, so I'm going to share something that I was considering when I was ill, and we'll find out together if there is a poignant moral to it at the end.

In my haze of cough medicine, pain meds, stuffed up nose, and fever dreams; while flurries of tissues spun around me like a gorgeous, contagious blizzard, I began thinking of old toys: Isn't it sad that there is a final time you play with a toy as a kid? I don't remember the last time I played with my furby, or, I don't know, my trolls, (the cute, colorful one's with the glittery belly buttons). I don't remember the last time I picked up my Tamagotchi, or when I put away my Bitty Baby for the final time.

How sad would it have been if I'd known it was the final time? I know what you're thinking, this conversation has been done, obviously there's an entire movie series surrounding what it's like when toys experience this sadness. But what of us?

Well in one such case, I remember.

As a young lass, I had a box of barbies in the corner of my bedroom. A plastic box with flaps I'd open and there were what felt like thousands of barbies in there. (There were probably ten.) My favorites were Pocahontas and Woody (Toy Story). And yes, he did say "There's a snake in my boot," and yes, Pocahontas and Woody were dating. I was around 11, which I'm told is rather old to be playing with barbies, but those people can go suck an egg. I remember they went out on a date, and changed clothes a few times, and I realized I was deeply bored. I lasted about an hour, before I looked at each of them. I set them back in the box and I never opened it again. It's strange to me how that sticks with me, it was like my first breakup. These toys had been my only escape for years and years, but now, they were boring. 

And then one day, a few months later, the box of barbies was placed in the shed. I grew up. I must've begun practicing with makeup then. I was in ballet and received my first set of makeup to wear myself, and was old enough that parents didn't have to do my make up for me for performances. I was only supposed to use this make up for ballet performances, but I don't listen.

That was one of a very few moments in my life that I remember clearly. And maybe I was too old to play with barbies because it was the final time. Or maybe Pocahontas and Woody's relationship had left the honeymoon stage and now that they were married I didn't have anywhere for their story to go. It's not like I had any baby barbies, or a barbie mansion for them to move in to.

My point is this, as kids we never remember the last time we did something, but as adults we constantly remember these times. After a while our world stops being the "First Time" we've done anything and we start to recognize more, "Last times." They stick with us, and they hurt. The last time we looked at our childhood bedroom. The last day of college. The last time we looked into a lover's face during a breakup. The last time we see a friend at graduation. The last time we *saw* a loved one's face.

Geez, that got dark, didn't it? I guess there was a point after all. But I can't leave you with that. I'm not trying to ruin days here.

Oh no, I don't have any ideas... Let's see... Um...

OH!

But that's why children are the future! When we start to see more "lasts" in our lives, we look at the children around us experiencing their "firsts" in life. The first words, their first steps. We watch them, and it places rose colored glasses on our past of "firsts" and we think fondly upon them. We watch these tiny people experience the horror of the first time they put their shoes on the wrong feet, the pure joy of their first rainbow, and we smile. For we wouldn't want to go back, but we're thankful for the memories.

All my love,
L.B.