Toys 'R Tough, Sara Leach [i love reading books txt] 📗

Toys ‘R Tough

By Sara Leach

It’s Christmas morning. My three-year-old son Ben understands the whole present thing for the first time. He runs downstairs, sees the pile of gifts under the tree and giggles with excitement at the loot Santa and Grandma have brought. We hand him his first gift. He rips off the wrapping paper, leaving it in a heap beside him on the floor, and squeals with glee at the box containing a car transporter, complete with six cars to drive up the ramps.

He tries to rip open the packaging. The box is secured in six places with nuclear strength tape. Ben waits while I get the scissors and cut it open. He reaches inside and tries to pull the plastic off the transporter. The plastic is attached to itself and the cardboard, with no visible seam. Compared to this, opening a new CD case is easy. Out come the scissors again. Ben starts hopping up and down: “Mommy, are you done yet? Are you done yet?!” while I hack a large hole through the plastic.

He grabs the transporter and…nothing happens. The toy is attached to the back of the cardboard with eight metal ties. We can’t cut these. They have to be un-twisted one at a time. It takes several attempts to figure out which way to twist each one. A three-year-old climbing on my back for a better view doesn't help. I finally undo the last one and hand him the transporter. He smiles, jumps off my back, and tries to drive the cars off the ramp. That would be too easy, though, wouldn’t it? The cars are attached to the transporter, not with wire, but with SCREWS.

I crush wrapping paper into a ball and mutter un-Christmas-like words.

“What’s that Mommy?” Ben asks.

I sigh. “Nothing. We’ll find a screw driver.”

The screws are so small you need one of those screwdrivers meant for fixing glasses to undo them. We don’t own one of those. My husband, my mother-in-law, and I hunt for something to use. We scour the house. We ask the neighbours. In a fit of frustration my husband yanks on a car, and breaks it off the ramp, leaving a few metal bits still attached.

We hold our breath, waiting for the tomato face that precedes a tantrum. Fortunately, the car still looks like a car. Ben is unfazed. We breathe out as he rolls it along the ground.

Ben rolls each car onto the ramp once, and takes the transporter for a quick spin. Then he turns around and asks, “Any more presents for me?”

The next toy is a set of action figurines that comes unassembled, in three flat plastic bags, each containing fifty small pieces, and a book of instructions a half-inch thick. I curse Santa’s elves who must have been on strike this year. As I try to understand instruction number 43 I make plans in my head for next Christmas. We’ll book off a week ahead of time to build the toys ourselves at night. We’ll extend the house to include another room in which to hide the completed sets.

I understand the basic concepts of marketing and merchandising. I’ve seen the havoc a toddler can wreak on toy packaging in the store. But is it necessary to have the skills of a professional thief to crack open the vault in which a toy train is wrapped?

In my childhood, I recall the presents being easier to open. Dolls were not pinned to their pink cardboard in displays of torture. Their boxes could be opened easily. My sister and I opened every present under the tree within ten minutes.

But then, maybe the marketing department gurus are doing a public service after all. As Ben waited for the adults to build his set, he played again with his transporter. Christmas morning turned into an all day event, during which the adults relived their childhood. We played together, sipping orange juice and munching cinnamon buns as we waited for the toys to be assembled.

Still, given the opportunity, I’d tell those people in advertising to find another target market to harass. I’ve got enough issues to deal with already.

Publication Date: 01-09-2010

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