I'm Not Kidding

I'm Not Kidding
Marrit Ingman

You know, next time you're at the post office, just send Fisher-Price their shit back. Because seriously, are you going to want to make a special trip later? Wait in the P.O. with a small person or persons to whom you are The World's Biggest Asshole Who Sends Their Toys Away?

Here's the point at which, were I a better activist, I would say fuck you to conglomerate toy motherfuckers with toxic crap built in China with phthalates by people who live like slaves, but my sincere attempts to interest The Boy in tree blocks and silk squares have not been fruitful, so I have no soapbox upon which to stand. And I'm just going to come out and say I don't think the tree blocks really gave me that much to work with. I'm not saying they have to light up or teach French, but I couldn't polish that turd.

As a child of the 1970s—the decade that brought you plastic fabrics and pressurized cheese in a can—I am drawn to Cool Toys Made From Synthetic Substances with Amazing Properties. I used to trip out on Shrinky Dinks. And what the fuck is in Shrinky Dinks? I'd probably have to spend an afternoon Googling before I let my kid look at a picture of Shrinky Dinks.

But even then we kind of knew it couldn't last. That's part of why it was fun. We could not eat miniature sausages in a can forever; we could not loll about in petroleum polymers aplenty for generations to come. Kids were going to have to go back to rolling balls of lint across the floor with wooden spoons. I'm not saying we should start collecting our lint (unless you're into it) but I'm keeping an eye out for right-sized boxes.