As a child, Christmas was an annual learning experience. As a child, I realized toys aren’t the same as real things. Toys represent real things, but they’re safe—and therefore boring.
During the first Christmas I can remember I was maybe 4, and I asked my parents for a big truck. What I got instead was a large orange Tonka truck.
Perhaps I ought to have specified that I wanted a real, actual monster truck—though, I suppose that would not have made a difference. And so it went with guns, too. But I maintain, why would anyone want a plastic gun? Why, you can’t even shoot soda cans with a fake gun.
Toys aren’t as bad a gift as clothing is of course. Giving a kid clothing as a present should be illegal, since parents are required by law to clothe their children anyway. Nobody wraps up steamed broccoli and sets it under the tree, and so it should be with socks.
Admittedly toys aren’t as bad as all that.
It is possible that had I any siblings I would have appreciated toys more than I did but, as it was, amusing myself was always more fun with real things. And yet, each year, my Christmas wishes for implements of real fun went largely ignored.
Even as a child, it was plain to see Christmas was a holiday for adults. Life in general is more fun as an adult, but it is particularly satisfying to no longer depend on the whims of a jolly old elf for stuff. As an adult, if one has a job, then one might buy all real things one wants.
Which reminds me. I still have some Christmas shopping to do.