Toys are the Father to the Child of the Man

About seven or eight years ago-I forget the exact date, but I think it was a week in the month of April-I had a perfect week. Every toy I owned worked properly; nothing was broke, in need of repairs or yearned for replacement-my world was whirling in greased grooves.

It had never happened before and will likely never happen again; like being witness to a comet and a total solar eclipse all in the same week-the odds are greatly against it.

Of course it didn’t last. Toys are akin to everything else in the universe, each begins its journey toward obsolescence as soon as it is born.

But for that one sweet week I was cruising with the wind at my back and a sweet breeze of an unbridled future stinging my face. It was one of those moments that become a memory lasting a lifetime.

We all have our curses: For some it might be the compulsion for neatness, or others the art for the organized opposite; some accurse to garnish public power while others shun toward a quiet life of introspection; the curse of a softness in the heart for stray dogs and cats, or those who have the need to win at Monopoly at any cost.

No one is immune to such curses. Mine is TOYS; the adoption of the personalities within nonhuman things- Anthropomorphism to be precise. To some, they look and see a car, a cow, a hammer or a barn for just what it is. For me I know differently and it is a curse-like being any parent.

I call them Toys but they are not really toys in any practical sense, they are just THINGS which I attach myself to, or they attach themselves to me. They are all my children, each with their own quirky personalities, blessed with a significant talent or burdened by some challenge never to overcome.

A hammer I buy at an antique store, the rabbit living in the floor of the barn, a dwarf pine tree in the woods or a created file of compilation songs on my I-Pod. They all become real and alive; alive and real enough with all the companionship of their existence. Each is assigned a unique personality, not defined by me but rather from something within each. I understand that to engage in such relationships also implies the curse of the responsibility of being their master-their parent.

Ah, the responsibility of being a parent, whether it be one or a thousand children, toys or other things.

I too often think of every detail about such toys. Those daunting details that must constantly be accounted for; the too distant bark of my dog, the cough of a cow, aging water pipes, oil filters or tires with too many miles, a barn not full enough of hay, computer’s memory too full, incandescent vs. florescent, diminishing bird seed in the dead of winter, etc.

Every roof shingle shall have a name and I knoweth every shingle that falleth.

I posses too many toys…like most folks I presume. To be the parent of so many children reveals a danger of too little quality time for each.

I am sure the accumulation of so many toys has something to do with a cultural–compulsion, probably tied to depression-era parents who figured the more ‘things’ you claim the greater the possibility that you will never die. But of course when you start seeing people who subscribe to such notions dying, you figure to start looking for other explanations-other options.

I have a friend who grew up in Russia, he explained to me once the difference between his culture and the American view of possessions.

He told me that in the Soviet Union, you only claim possessions that you are able to carry on your back; a book, a photograph, a pot, a sweater, etc. I was made to understand the difference between being able to own abundant ‘toys’ as well as the likes of a house, a car, a business, rather those things that the State owns to be disbursed or allocated by some bureaucrats’ whim. Perhaps our American culture is nudging toward such frugalities. One day we might claim, I will go anywhere, do anything you say… as long as I can take my I-Phone…it’s all I ever need.

Any ways, I have ever since treasured that perfect week of an April long gone by. About a week later everything broke-big time broke! It was as if someone up there finally noticed that I was out of the pain loop and paid me back with a vengeance. Then pain becomes the dominant memory of that brief moment’s bliss.

To be a parent one understands these things about pain, sacrifice and bliss. It is the same weight of responsibility whether you are a parent of toys, things, animals or those small, humans that look suspiciously like the parents- good or bad parents.

I guess I am lucky, though I can never admit it. I have been accused- in the whispers of those who wish to remain anonymous- of being a good father. If it be so, there’s really no official certification of such; no ceremonies like when you get your PhD, or win a Golden Globe or crowned Mr. America (do they still have that? That always seemed like a stupid event-I mean, if you were really called Mr. America shouldn’t you at least be able to fly?).

Being called a good father or a good parent is one of those constraining conundrums in which we exist-another cosmic irony. If someone actually offered you such a compliment you would be embarrassed to accept; aware of all the things you could of-should of-done better.

Children can never say such a compliment either. Although, if you look close you might be able to see it in their eyes, or give a listen you might hear it in their voice-but it is not something that can be said face to face.

Unfortunately, the same 'loosey-goosey' dynamics exist in defining a bad father. A line from an old movie comes to mind- You have to have a license for a dog but any idiot can be a parent. And yet how many social ills exist consuming millions of dollars and trillions of heartaches as a result of men who only enjoy the first phase of fatherhood and cannot be bothered with the other six-hundred and fifty-seven phases of fatherhood. We all understand the need to spay and neuter some animals to protect them from themselves. Yet, no one would easily be willing to assign a label of a good or bad parent-out loud.

There is an academic way to tell. It is a simple test to ascertain parental aptitude relative to toys. I am sure you heard of the Schultz/Bing/Blemingheim Parental Aptitude Standard Testing (everyone else does it-so why not?). Known as PAST in learned circles, the basic theory of the test is a scientific correlation of a parent’s ability to, well, parent, based on indirect factors of how well they treat their toys. The relationship is not unlike the simple correlation of understanding a restaurant’s kitchen cleanliness by evaluating the cleanliness of the bathrooms!

The PAST evaluates how well a potential parent may, or may not be able assume proper responsibility for a human toy based on how they follow through with their non-human toys. Often the evaluation can be done quickly by simply looking in someone’s garage and/or closet, or spending five minutes with their pet.

For better or worse: We all know this concept. Folks usually buy into it when situations are better- with visions that it will always be so- Also true for toys, no doubt.

But, of course, children are not toys. They wake up each morning hungry for their cold bowls of cereal looking for the warmth of a parent who cares; cares enough to be around for the duration.