Build-a-"Baby"

I had never even heard of Build-a-Bear's "Pay Your Age" promotion. 

Then, last Wednesday afternoon, I got a call from my favorite 18 year old. He wanted to know if the boys like stuffed animals, told me about the deal, and asked if he could take the boys. I couldn't say "Yes" and "You are the greatest kid in the world" fast enough, so bright and early Thursday morning, the boys and I boarded "the Cat Car" (which Jones wants to rename "Elasti-girl's car," a change with which I am TOTALLY okay) and headed South. 

By the time we got to Haywood Mall - it was probably 11:30 or so - every Greenvillian under the age of 6 was standing in a line outside Build-a-Bear. In fact, they'd cut off the line just before we got there, which was a God-send. There was no debating whether or not to wait (I'd NEVER have waited in that line, by the way), AND we were handed vouchers for two free bears as soon as we arrived. 

I hadn't told the boys what we were doing. The surprise was Doodoo's to reveal, I thought. Plus, until Thursday, Jones and Freddie wouldn't have known the phrase "Build-a-Bear" from "biblical eschatology" (they've both built a bear before - with gift cards from Auntcy - but they were babies and certainly don't remember the experience), so they were pretty easy to pacify with, "We'll do it tomorrow" - especially after I confirmed that there were both bear-sized Spiderman AND Captain America costumes to be bought.

The bears even went to the
barber shop with us.

As a back-up plan, we went to Frankie's Fun Park. Camden bought the boys milkshakes at the on-site Johnny Rockets, and then the boys went swimming with Bobo at Mayme and Pop's house. They were as happy with Plan B as they'd have been with Plan A, though they did remind me at least 1000 times between then and bedtime that we'd be building a bear after their "long snooze."

And that's just what we did. 

We got to the Asheville Mall just after it opened. While we did have a little wait, it was more like a perfectly-palatable 20 minutes, as opposed to the 7.5 hours it'd have taken the day before. The way the boys have loved on and played with those bears ever since they brought them home, however, I'm kinda wondering if even the 7.5 hours would've even been worth it. 

Here are some pics and videos demonstrating the boys' fond affections for their precious "babies."

Mrs. Pressley gave the boys some old flip phones,
which they took with us on the outing, too.
Here's Jones "taking" Captain America's picture ... 

... and showing Captain America the picture he took.

Those phones haven't worked in five years.
Don't tell THEM that.

The bears joined us at Whole Foods,
which Freddie calls "the little buggy store,"
for obvious reasons. 

Toys R Un-necessary

Earlier this fall, I had an epiphany.

It was one that came on slowly - different layers of it revealed over several months of watching the boys play in their playroom ... or just outside of it, as the case may be. 

I'm not sure how it all got started, but at some point, the boys started throwing toys over the baby gates and into either the kitchen or the office. It'd happen both when they were pitching a fit or when they wanted my attention, but either way, it made me CUH-RAZY. 

Jones responded to discipline and quit with rare setbacks. Freddie, on the other hand, was COMPLETELY unfazed by whatever I tried to make him stop. Finally, I decided I'd just make a rule that whatever he threw became mine. I imagined it'd be a huge deterrent. I'd keep things until I decided it was time to give them back, and he'd walk by the box swelling with his playthings and be overcome with grief for the actions that caused their separation. 

Um. Yeah.

That's not exactly what happened. 

Turns out, I have now collected all but about three toys from the playroom, and not only did the boys not shed a single tear when I took them (over the course of several weeks), but they haven't asked for ONE.SINGLE.ONE of them. 

NOT ONE.

And it's not like they haven't seen them. 

There are multiple boxes and piles of them in the garage. We walk by them every single day. There's another stash in the sun room. We walk by them a couple of times a week, and nothing. Not even a wistful, "There's the 'heldicopper' Mayme gave me for my birthday. Can I please play with it?" 

NOTHING. 

I began to realize that their toys don't mean diddly squat to them. This revelation was ultimately driven home by the first time that I put them in the playroom when there was not much more than a slide, a rocking horse, and a basketball goal in there. I'd expected they'd be bored to tears. I had no idea what they'd do to occupy themselves and told them as much as I put them in there to play, my voice all full of "If only you'd listened to Mama" disdain.

Moments later, I heard them laughing and singing songs from "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" as they danced around the wide, newly-open space. And then I called my mother and reminded her to PLEASE not overbuy for the boys this Christmas. 

Another layer of the epiphany dropped like so many autumn leaves when we were at Lake Junaluska last week. We'd gone to have a picnic and try out their new park space. But after we ate, we couldn't figure out how to get into the park area. I thought the boys would be sad; I braced for fits and tears but was VERY proud when none came. 

When we walked through a wide open field to get back to the car, I said to the boys, "Y'all want to play in the field?" Of course, they did! And then they went and chased the ducks around the lake, and when we left, Jones said, "Dat was FU-UN!"

Getting back in the car, I thought to myself, "Not only do kids not care about toys. They also don't care about play equipment."

Apparently, when it comes to playtime, all kids care about are wide-open spaces where they can laugh and sing and ... in the case of Jones and Freddie Pressley ... throw leaves in the wind. 

Lesson learned.