This week, I literally unpacked some childhood trauma—and it all started with my three-year-old’s newfound obsession with Beanie Babies. Yes, the little stuffed animals that caused a frenzy back in the day have captured my son’s heart. Lucky for him, my mom was one of the many people who dove headfirst into the Beanie Baby craze, amassing a collection she believed would be her ticket to early retirement. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. But while they didn’t make us a fortune, they’re about to bring my son some serious joy this Christmas.
In preparation for the holidays, my husband and I ventured into our rafters to find the Beanie Babies. As we sifted through the bins of nostalgia, we stumbled across something unexpected: my old Barbies. These weren’t just any Barbies, though. These were pristine, still-in-their-box Barbies—because I wasn’t allowed to open them. Why? To this day, I have no idea.
Let’s unpack this for a second. These Barbies were given to me as gifts, wrapped up in pretty paper and ribbons, only to be whisked away and shelved, untouched. Were they meant to be some kind of investment? A future collector’s dream? We looked them up, and… they’re not worth much. So was this just an exercise in teaching me the fine art of disappointment? A lesson in restraint? Or was it purely for the satisfaction of having an untouched collection? Who knows.
But here’s the plot twist. As I stared at those Barbies, still perfectly preserved, I felt a wave of determination to heal my inner child. My daughter may only be a baby now, but one day, those Barbies will be hers. And when she’s ready, she’ll play with them. Boxes will be ripped open, hair will be styled (and likely chopped), tiny shoes will inevitably get lost, and I will bask in the chaos of it all. Because toys are meant to be played with.
Here’s to healing, to laughter, and to the unboxing of joy—literally and figuratively.
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