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consumer choices
Aug. 30th, 2009 05:29 pmIt's been a lovely weekend with the grandparents, but our little Bug is feeling poorly and I was elected to go to the toy store without him this afternoon for some "essentials". Unfortunately I came home without Objective #1 (I believe I am still in trouble for giving that toy away) but I was able to achieve Objective #2: Baby Doll. There were also some necessary books that I carted home--it's amazing what constitutes "essential" when you have a fussy toddler.
Bekah asked me a couple months ago: was he playing with dolls? He is not, unless you count the plastic Little People figurines in the farm set (I don't). It's never been something he's shown an interest in, but given that we don't really have any dolls, and he goes to a baby school full of boys that hovers somewhere on this side of Lord of the Flies much of the time, there's really been no opportunity for him to miss them. So, a doll it would be. I walked into the toy store as an easy target--the Mother Who Is Determined to Buy Her Son a Doll--and found myself totally stumped. Some of them have clothes sewn on, some of them have removable clothes, some of them have diapers, some of them go potty, some of them eat and burp and sleep when you put them down. All are dressed in pretty hideous pink frills. A little voice inside my head exclaimed, "Not for my boy!" and I suddenly realized that whether I like it or not, I will be a full participant in his gender conditioning. The ultimate winner was a sweet little mop-headed boy doll in surfer clothes (partially removable) and attached flip-flops. He is about eight inches long and fully plush and has a little embroidered belly button. His tag says 6+ (why??? I found nothing deadly on there) and proclaims his name to be "Dylan" and is decked out in the pink, green, and purple floral print of the "Stylish Chicks" or whatever brand name he belongs to. He was, of course, made in China. I balked at that, but then convinced myself that I was just stalling. On the shelf with "Dylan" were nine varieties of girl doll--a princess, a bikini babe, a sporty chick (the only one wearing pants) a glitter girl, etc, etc. Dylan is obviously the pretend boyfriend for this line of girl dolls: completely unthreatening, sporty but skinny, a mere quarter-inch taller than his gal pals. I asked the staff to wrap up the doll--possibly to show the significance of the gift, possibly so I could pretend it was for another child--and me and the Token Boy went home.
Next to me in the doll search were new parents to a 4 month old child (4 and a half months, according to his mother) who were trying to find a lovey because their little dear was apparently sleeping not at all and they had read in a baby book, or heard from a friend, that a transitional object might help with this. They were holding up stuffed bear after bunny after elephant after bear, gauging their child's reaction to each. At the beginning he kicked and squealed and grinned, but after seven or eight tries with the same result, they were getting discouraged, since they were obviously not finding The One. Ever helpful, I held up a brightly colored smiling plush robot labeled 12+ mo and shook it at the lad. Mom looked at it doubtfully ("It's too old for him") and Dad was thrilled ("But it will help more because it's got a recognizable face! That's the one!") and I slipped away before they could draw me into the fray. Their kid, meanwhile, was exhausted at being asked to find just the right thing. No wonder he was perplexed--none of us adults seemed to have mastered it yet either.
Bekah asked me a couple months ago: was he playing with dolls? He is not, unless you count the plastic Little People figurines in the farm set (I don't). It's never been something he's shown an interest in, but given that we don't really have any dolls, and he goes to a baby school full of boys that hovers somewhere on this side of Lord of the Flies much of the time, there's really been no opportunity for him to miss them. So, a doll it would be. I walked into the toy store as an easy target--the Mother Who Is Determined to Buy Her Son a Doll--and found myself totally stumped. Some of them have clothes sewn on, some of them have removable clothes, some of them have diapers, some of them go potty, some of them eat and burp and sleep when you put them down. All are dressed in pretty hideous pink frills. A little voice inside my head exclaimed, "Not for my boy!" and I suddenly realized that whether I like it or not, I will be a full participant in his gender conditioning. The ultimate winner was a sweet little mop-headed boy doll in surfer clothes (partially removable) and attached flip-flops. He is about eight inches long and fully plush and has a little embroidered belly button. His tag says 6+ (why??? I found nothing deadly on there) and proclaims his name to be "Dylan" and is decked out in the pink, green, and purple floral print of the "Stylish Chicks" or whatever brand name he belongs to. He was, of course, made in China. I balked at that, but then convinced myself that I was just stalling. On the shelf with "Dylan" were nine varieties of girl doll--a princess, a bikini babe, a sporty chick (the only one wearing pants) a glitter girl, etc, etc. Dylan is obviously the pretend boyfriend for this line of girl dolls: completely unthreatening, sporty but skinny, a mere quarter-inch taller than his gal pals. I asked the staff to wrap up the doll--possibly to show the significance of the gift, possibly so I could pretend it was for another child--and me and the Token Boy went home.
Next to me in the doll search were new parents to a 4 month old child (4 and a half months, according to his mother) who were trying to find a lovey because their little dear was apparently sleeping not at all and they had read in a baby book, or heard from a friend, that a transitional object might help with this. They were holding up stuffed bear after bunny after elephant after bear, gauging their child's reaction to each. At the beginning he kicked and squealed and grinned, but after seven or eight tries with the same result, they were getting discouraged, since they were obviously not finding The One. Ever helpful, I held up a brightly colored smiling plush robot labeled 12+ mo and shook it at the lad. Mom looked at it doubtfully ("It's too old for him") and Dad was thrilled ("But it will help more because it's got a recognizable face! That's the one!") and I slipped away before they could draw me into the fray. Their kid, meanwhile, was exhausted at being asked to find just the right thing. No wonder he was perplexed--none of us adults seemed to have mastered it yet either.
