And so we found ourselves in Toys R Us on the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend.  It was the first time I’ve been since I was a child.  I remember being so enamored of the store as a young one, thinking that it represented possibility.  Possibility of what, you may ask.  New toys to unwrap and play with, new people I could become, new worlds to explore on an icy February afternoon, how my life would be more complete with that one perfect, purple, sparkly Barbie skirt.

And so it was with a little trepidation that I walked into Toys R Us.  My habits of consumerism have taken a nosedive over the past several years, but not without a lot of work and introspection.  I wondered if I would walk through the doors and relive the youthful feeling of possibility and excitement I equated with this store, but this time geared towards my child.

Before we entered the store, we prepped our son that though we would be going to a toy store, we would not be getting anything for him.  We were there to pick out a toy to donate to a local toy drive.  I worried he wouldn’t fully understand, but I didn’t give him enough credit.  Not once did he ask for a single thing – and we walked up and down most of the aisles.  He was content to hug the stuffed animals, briefly pick up a couple of toys to see how they worked, and help us to pick out a toy for another child.  We ultimately picked out a scooter – something my husband and I would have gladly received for Christmas as a child.  To say I was proud of him was an understatement.  Great first trip to a mega-toy store, little guy!

But I also feel as if I exorcised some personal demons.  I walked through that store and felt nothing but disinterest.  Disinterest in what it represented and disinterest in the aisles and aisles of (mostly) junk.  This is not to say that I am anti-toy.  Van has some superb toys that he plays with regularly, some of which were purchased and some of which were homemade.  But, by breaking the tie of objects with possibility, I allow those very real possibilities to dwell elsewhere.  The possibilities that I dreamt of as a child are not something to be discarded, but are better if cultivated far from the halls of consumerism.

Instead of new toys to unwrap and play with, I find the magic of possibility by making something for myself that I would have otherwise purchased.  Instead of thinking about how my life would improve with a new [insert your weakness here], I take an active role and try to improve my life by learning new skills, spending time with people I love and with new friends, and exploring the natural world.  In other words, the possibility no longer dwells in a store, but dwells within me.  It is up to all of us to tap that potential.  And it is up to me to help my son to see the magic of possibility, particularly the kind that does not sit on store shelves waiting to be unwrapped.