These Days, War Toys Take a Back Seat to Slime
Since our sons have long since left our bed and board, I am not familiar with contemporary toys. Actually, I don’t remember that our boys had a lot of toys; I preferred to let them use their imaginations.
I had few toys myself as a boy. I do remember getting a red bicycle for Christmas one year. And when I was about 11 my older sister’s boyfriend, a star on the Whittier College football team, gave me a football that he had undoubtedly removed from the squad’s supply room.
When I was very small I somehow acquired a wooden replica of a Springfield rifle and a genuine World War I Doughboy helmet. With these props I waged a realistic war against the Boche. I went “over the top” hundreds of times, and I was always killed on some forgotten battlefield. I died heroically and with great theatrical aplomb.
I once asked my father if he thought there would be a war for me to fight in when I grew up. I obviously hoped so. He became very angry. He said nobody wanted a war and he hoped there would never be another one. I don’t remember that I ever played war again, until, of course, a real one did come along and I had to go.
What causes me to reflect on my blighted childhood is a letter from Janet L. Sorensen of Glendora, an attorney and the mother of a 5-year-old daughter and a 3-year-old son. She graciously says that reading my column helps her “feel connected with a world of adults.”
“So why am I writing?” she asks. “I decided that you and your world should be brought down to my level. Enough about trips to ancient Egypt. . . . At our house, the concept of great art is in a Play-Doh sculpture or crayon drawings. Seriously, I am not complaining. I love my children and I know that someday (probably all too soon) I will return to the world of adults, but sometimes it does seem that there should be something more exciting to think about than the ABCs and ‘Sesame Street.’ ”
What she really wanted to write about, she says, was children’s toys, knowing I am probably out of touch. She recently bought her son a Ghostbuster Firehouse. He loves it. She doesn’t mind it. The Sorensens don’t believe in ghosts. Besides, they have “a whole arsenal with which we could level Transylvania if necessary.”
What has her climbing the walls is a substance called Ecto-Plazm that came with the firehouse. “It is the most vile substance I have ever encountered. It is like no other thing, except it looks very much like the goo in the old movie ‘The Blob.’ Needless to say, both my children love the stuff.”
Ecto-Plazm is deposited in a grate on top of the firehouse and gravity takes effect. “The gloop hangs down through the different layers of the house in disgusting strings. My children squeal with delight at the sight of it.”
Sorensen is convinced that toy manufacturers think up new products with the “mother annoyance factor” in mind. She complains that Play-Doh is permanently embedded in her carpet; that Barbie parts are scattered all over the house; finger-paints are a menace; and children’s cosmetics alone “are enough to make you crazy.
“But in my estimation all of these pale by comparison to this new instrument of destruction. Not only does it make a mess, but it also is nauseating to look at. A perfect combination for any child.”
She sees some merit in Play-Doh and paints. “They allow our kids to express their creativity . . . and keep them occupied while we clean up the last mess they made.” She can also forgive Barbie. “The Barbie sets remind me of my own childhood, and they allow my daughter to pretend in worlds that seem to be so pleasant.
“So, there are real reasons behind these toys. The Ecto-Plazm appears to have none of these. It is devoid of any purpose except to cover the entire house in a sticky gunk that is cold and creepy to touch.”
But Sorensen admits she is guilty herself. “There must be some sort of omnipotent being because ultimately this stuff dries out and loses its slime qualities. So why did I immediately go out and buy some more of it for my son? Must be the delight in his laughter when he plays with it. On second thought, you can keep your trips to Egypt and . . . other adult fare. I think I’ll go get slimed.”
While Sorensen is fighting Ecto-Plazm and waiting to escape back into the adult world, I will remind her that Ecto-Plazm is not nearly as morbid a toy as a Springfield rifle and a World War I helmet.
At least she’s keeping the peace.