Toy Box

Michele’s dad made a great toy box for Savvy when she was a toddler. He painted it a cute combination pink and purple color, just for her, and Michele decorated it with stick-on elephant decals and flowers. And the name “Savvy,” of course.

Savvy has loved her toy box since it first arrived at our house. The joy on her angelic face as she climbed inside and smiled from ear to ear at such a wonderful, huge toy box! She dreamed of all the magical toys it would soon hold. We even placed it in a prime spot, right in the corner of the living room, for all to see and enjoy.

Where it has become the bane of my existence.

Apparently you have to dig to the very bottom of the toy box to find the one toy – that one special, prized, amazing toy – that is the only one you can play with, and in the process you have to do throw every other toy on top of it onto the floor.

I mentioned this toy box is in our living room, right?

But Savvy is now four years old, so she can put those toys back in the toy box… right?

Well, yeah, kinda sorta… how long do you have?

A few minutes into the task of having our daughter put the toys back in the toy box, I walked back into the room. Savvy was sitting on the floor, playing with a few Barbies she had discovered.

Re-instructed that we are putting the toys INTO the toy box and not playing, she groans and commences piling various toy-looking objects into the toy box. I leave to check email for a moment.

When I return, the scene looks the same as when I left, except Savvy is sitting by the toy box, apparently exhausted.

“Daddy, this is so tiring! There are a lot of toys to pick up!”

I resisted the urge to tell her that Salvation Army will pick them all up with a phone call, never to return.

“Yeah, maybe that’s why you don’t throw them all over the floor when you’re getting something out of toy box.”

She sighs.

The look I got in return for that comment was one of complete and abject ridicule, held back only slightly. Like, “Dad, you can’t be serious; that’s not how it’s done. Come on.”

She’s only four, but I know that’s what she was thinking. In a few years, that’s probably what she’ll be saying.

But today, the result was firm, steadfast resolve: Put. Your. Toys. In. The. Toy box.

I think I even gritted my teeth while I said it, for effect. Clint Eastwood has nothing on me.

Okay, maybe I helped a little, too. The stuffed animals don’t go in there, and if they do go in, nothing else fits. So I took those upstairs for her while she put the rest of the toys in the toy box…

Most of them, anyway. Between playing with the Barbies.

I think it took her an hour…

It’s a start.

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