by Denise Schipani

In the six-and-a-half years I’ve been a parent thus far, I have bought an untold amount of: clothes, shoes, chicken nuggets, sippy cups, and diapers, diapers, diapers. (Enough to paper several ballrooms, at the least). What I have not purchased? Toys. Not one. OK, maybe one or two, but seriously, that’s it. There was a time I was in the baby superstore when my older son, Daniel, was a toddler, and fell in love with a little bed that came with three bouncing monkeys, and played the “Three little monkeys jumping on the bed” song as the monkeys bounced off the bed. The rest of the toys Daniel and his little brother, James, now have were pretty much all gifts. To me—and, it seems, to them—that’s enough.

Still don’t believe me? Two Christmases ago, I swear, was the first time we got Daniel, then 5, and James, then 3, any “from Santa” presents at all. My thought was, before they know what to expect and before they start asking (or begging), why invite it by forcing all that hoopla on them? I’d seen too many little relatives turning into wild-eyed, wrapping-paper-hungry dervishes while in the throes of toy-opening frenzy—not attractive. So when, that year, Daniel piped up and said he wanted a trumpet (where did that come from?!), I headed off to Amazon.com and found a toy version, silver with blue, purple, and red buttons. He loves it; it’s taken a lot of abuse and a couple of Krazy-Glue-mends, but it lingers in our playroom. And, for the record, this past year, at age 6, Daniel asked for an accordion. Even the mall Santa sat there in disbelief, waiting for the rest of the list. That was it.

I have nothing against toys. In fact, I’m a big fan, and having boys was actually a little slice of toy glee for me, since I favor traditionally boy toys over the stuff currently marketed toward girls (much as I loved my dolls as a girl, I have no desire to relive Barbies, and harbor a genuine fear of Polly Pockets and their tiny-shoe-and-accessory cousins). But construction vehicles, toy tool boxes, Legos and Matchbox cars? Bring ‘em on!

So yes, I love toys. What I don’t enjoy are mountains of toys, toys that can’t be contained, and toys that—inevitably—get lost, separated from their sets, broken, and ignored simply because there are too darn many of them. I’ve been called a Mean Mommy for not buying more toys for my sons, but that’s a mantle I wear with pride. I do not connect a houseful of toys with happy, well-adjusted kids. Quite the opposite; I think the happiest kids tend to be those who can actually name their favorite playthings because they can see them in the toybox. In my experience, kids with too many toys (a): treat those toys badly; and (b): only end up playing with a few selected ones anyway. Oh, and (c): have parents who spend way too much time organizing, cleaning up, and stressing over toys. Not for me, thanks.

This may well change as my boys get older, but for now, I honestly don’t think they notice just how minimalist their playroom is. Maybe I can take credit for their contented obliviousness, I’m not sure. I do know that if I happen to take a swing through Toys R Us with my children (when buying a party gift, say), it hasn’t yet occurred to them to ask me for (or, heaven forbid, beg or have tantrums over) any of the stuff they see stacked floor to ceiling. I know moms who can draw you a map of the toy store on the back of a cocktail napkin; I go in there and immediately get lost and vaguely dizzy. As for my sons, I suspect they see the toy store as another fun place to play, or just look at stuff. Like a museum.

In our fantastic public library, there’s a room set aside for children’s programs, in which the librarians sometimes host winter Friday “playdates.” They fill the room with toys and open the doors for free play, the idea being you can get out the house with your kids to stave off bad-weather doldrums. Great idea—and great toys. They have the kid-size kitchens, the pop-up playhouses, the crawl-through tubes, the ride-on toys, and vast bins of, well, just about anything else that comes in primary colors and/or makes noise. All the stuff I’m reluctant to stuff my home with. One Friday last year, watching my boys play bumper cars and tumble on giant mats, another mom sidled up to me and said, with a laugh, “oh, we have all this stuff at home. In fact, this room looks just like my dining room.” My own dining room? It looks like a dining room. Y’know, with a table and some chairs. Come to think of it, the boys do sometimes play in there, huddling under the table doing heaven knows what.

That’s exactly the way I like it.

Denise Schipani is a freelance writer for magazines such as American Baby, Woman’s Day, Real Simple, and Parents (www.deniseschipani.com), and blogs about being a Mean Mommy.