I'm not the world's biggest toy enthusiast. I mean, there are certain toys which appeal to my fancy, but most of them tend to disappoint.
I've never especially cared for my children to become attached to toys. It's somehow disheartening to think a mass marketed, media driven, popular figurine could capture my daughter's imagination, franchement.
I would rather them be outside gazing at a pinecone, imagining it to be a tree in a miniature forest. I would rather them be reading. I would rather them be writing. I would rather them be running. I would rather them be dancing.
I would rather them be making things.
Over the years, I've smiled a bit wanly at some of the toys they've received as gifts. I hope that doesn't smack of elitism or ingratitude...it's just my heart has instinctively yearned for a certain natural, nostalgic ideal when it comes to playtime for my children.
Happily enough, I see them leaning toward the balance of my vision on their own accord (and possibly due to an occasional lack of flashier options, which I freely endorse).
Often, it seems a sheet of paper is all they need to amuse themselves for an entire afternoon.
Oh, paper. I have such a crush on you. I love that you are the canvas upon which our imagination and dreams unfold.
