I think that most of you know that I have an addiction to reality tv–chiefly anything called Real Housewives or Top Chef. I also frequently watch a show on HGTV call “House Hunters.” Tonight’s episode featured a couple searching for a home that would accommodate their son’s toys.
They had a budget of $575,000 and were looking in and around Alexandria, Va. They were moving because their current residence didn’t have room for a toddler’s toys.
My parents built the house I grew up in in the early 1960s. I feel certain that my toys–or my sister’s for that matter–had no bearing whatsoever on the design for that home.
And why should it?
Here’s what I had for toys:
- a stick
- a rock
- some string
- some dead worms
- hickory nuts
OK…that’s not entirely true. We had real toys. We had a great big yard and woods to play in. We caught crawdads and rode our bikes for miles into town to the pool. We had freedom and imagination and creativity.
I had Barbies and trolls and all kinds of model horses.
But no matter what the hot toy of the season was, I preferred books.
Pop psychology tells us that people derive happiness either from material possessions or experiences, such as vacations. One look at my house tells you that I (and Husband) fall into the experience category.
We still don’t have that many toys.