Mommy, my toy broke.

Remember when we were kids and we got new toys?

For me it was rarely if ever. Barbies mostly. In shiny boxes, with perfect hair.

I barely took them out of the box for the first month or so.

Eventually it would be taken out, only in the company of other Barbie owners, to sit and have grand high tea, and cautiously brush hair coz that blonde stuff did not grow back.

And then right back into the box – this went on for about six odd months.

Then the decline was rapid.

The shoes were the first ones to go.

At about the eight month mark, all that blonde hair was down to the scalp, cut away in various hairdressing experiments.

The clothes went next. Taken off and put on so many times that they no longer fit.

And the first year anniversary was invariably with a few limbs missing – the Barbie now being used as the one legged alien woman attacking the city – to be killed in an epic battle by the younger brother’s GI Joe’s.

Time  to get another, new shiny one.

It’s been quite a few years. But I would still like to go to mommy and say ‘my toy broke, give me a new one.’

On most days.


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