Of course it’s my fault for buying the kid so much stuff in the first place. I’m the sucker who indulged every request in his letter to Santa, except for the hamster—the one who spent Christmas day watching her only child assemble seven brand new Lego sets, one for every year of his life.
And just as I’m silently cursing myself for falling into the New Crap Trap once again, therein reinforcing the very consumerism I despise, I overhear him say this to his friend: “Want to walk around the house and try to find stuff in weird places?”
Excited by this plan, my son’s playmate said yes, and for the next ½ hour (which is a long time for two seven-year-old boys to do anything) they scour the house, searching behind couches, underneath the fridge, in the dryer, and in any little nook and cranny where tiny treasures might be found.
Here is their bounty, post dust-bunny removal.
And they are still playing with this stuff over an hour later, while my son’s brand new toys sit idle, awaiting their inevitable destiny of getting stuck between the couch cushions so that they too can someday be considered treasures.