Childhood Toy

The loud crunching sound of the gravel outside told me that dad was home from visiting his mother, and I fairly flew to the back door to fling myself in his arms. I knew Grandma would never allow him to return home without bringing some little surprise for me and my sister...a crisp dollar bill, a small toy, or a few pieces of candy. I knew the minute I saw him that today was no different, for he had his arms behind his back, and I knew it had to be something really special for him to be hiding it like that. I laughed and pleaded with him to see "What Grandma sent us." He kept twisting and dodging my hands, all the while saying "Nothing. She didn't send anything today." I just knew he was telling a fib, because he still kept his hands behind his back as he tried to slip past me into the house. I made one lunge around his back and my hands touched something soft and furry. The dust of the years has clouded my memory as to how I actually got the toy out of his hands, but I did, and was squealing with delight with the floppy black dog with the long, floppy black ears, one of which I quickly realized had a bell in it. My dad looked solemnly at me and broke my heart when he reached for it and told me that the dog was for my sister and that Grandma had not sent me anything this time. I will probably never know what made him tell me that. I could not possibly break his heart now by asking him and allowing him to know just how hurt he had made me feel. Even more, I can not risk him denying it, cannot risk unsettling the dust that has covered all of the little mistakes we all make as young parents.

My tears were hot and blinding as I ran back towards my room, and threw myself across the bed wondering why my Grandma didn't love me anymore. When you are 5, your world is so tentative, ready to topple at any moment's notice for any kind of perceived injustice. It seemed so unfair. Nancy was 3 years old and got a puppy. I got nothing. Had I crossed some conditional age-line that decreed I was no longer eligible for gifts from Grandma? My question was not long wondered, for my father appeared in the doorway of my room with his hands behind his back. Through my sniffles and tears, he apologized and held out the toy Grandma had sent for me. My immediate and anticipated joy was dashed more cruelly and painfully than before, for in his outstretched hands, he held not a soft black puppy with a bell in one ear, but a gray plastic helicopter.

Throughout our lives, there are always small shames, things which we instinctively tend not to want others to know about, things which we push down inside of ourselves where they are allowed to either grow unfettered, or shrivel up into unrecognizable malignant masses. This then, has been one of mine...this small shame of having received a gray plastic helicopter from my Grandmother when I was only 5 years old. It was not a toy for little girls. It was not something to snuggle up with and kiss. It was cold in my hands, and to me, a little girl who loved color and rainbows, it seemed the grayest thing in the entire world.

I solemnly thanked him, and took the helicopter outside to play. I was determined not to feel so disappointed, and set about trying to imagine how to play with this gray plastic thing. I could not stop thinking about how the black dog was so soft and I could not stop hearing that little bell that was in his long floppy ear. I was heartbroken, but still.....I wanted to make an effort to have fun with the helicopter so I would not disappoint my father or my grandma. I spun the propeller around and around with my fingers, then held it aloft as if it were taking off. I dipped and lifted the helicopter in its maiden flight, and even started to believe it might be fun after all. But it was not to be, for as I spun around with the helicopter raised over my head, it slipped from my hand and crashed to the ground. I didn't even need to pick it up to see that it had broken. I was horrified to see that the propellers were broken off and a huge jagged crack had split the body in two. My dismay was not for the loss of the thing, but for the fact that my father would think I had deliberately broken the toy that I so obviously had not wanted. I quietly went indoors to the bedroom I shared with my sister, and slid the broken pieces towards the back of my side of the closet.

That night, and every night for the next 8 years that I shared that room with my sister, the black dog lay next to her as she slept. Everytime the bell in its ear jingled, I had a pang of hurt run through me. My own bed was crowded with stuffed animals, but none like the black dog, because instead of one like him, my grandma and father had felt I deserved an ugly gray helicopter.

The story doesn't end here. My sister and I grew up and even matured a bit on the way, and eventually she got her own bedroom when it was decided we no longer needed the playroom across the hall. We both were relieved, not because we did not get along well, but because at some point, girls need their own space and privacy. She had just finished moving all of her things out, when she knocked on the door of what was now my room. When I opened the door, she was standing there with her hands behind her back.

"Here," she said. "You can use this more than me," and she brought her hands from behind her, and pushed the gently tattered black dog at me.

"What is this for?" I asked, more curious than anything about why she was doing this. I had never once asked her for the dog, or told her how bad I had felt all those years ago.

She just pushed the dog into my hands, and answered, "I have known all these years how much you wanted him, and I think he should belong to you now." It was at that moment that I realized that no matter what, I would always love her, and would always do anything thing for her. Always. And that is why my favorite childhood toy was not even mine.

Stop Animal Abuse Immediately

This page last updated on May 5, 2003