Toy Story

My husband and I are eager to share our childhood favorites with our daughter.

Isaac, who is just over 1 year old, hasn’t had our interests foisted upon him yet, but give us time. For now, Lucy, who is 3 years old, is the one on the receiving end of her parents’ varied interests and influences.

My husband has done pretty well so far with his light-handed indoctrination of comic book characters and their associated merchandise. She can pick out Spider-Man from a lineup consisting of Batman, Superman, Mister Miracle and the Flash. In related sci-fi fashion, she is starting to be able to discern between classic, old-school Star Wars and all the somewhat disappointing newer Clone Wars-era. (Woe is upon her when she realizes who Anakin turns out to be when he grows up.) Lucy is also keen on other stories in comic book format that aren’t traditionally so, like the new Tinkerbell and Toy Story comic books he recently brought home for her.

I am also doing my part to bring out the me in her, something positive from my genetic contribution other than my sometimes paranoid hothead personality. She is my mini me in many ways, so when it comes to playing, she’s naturally doing some of the things she sees me doing much of the time, which is to say that she likes to pretend to cook and take care of her many assorted babies. There is a set of twins, recently named the Pickle Babies, don’t ask me why. She dresses up her red and white Beanie Baby bear in diapers and pretends to take him to the pool or to console him after he’s had a bad dream. And Lucy loves her books, just like her mom (and her dad) before her.

But I’m wondering if it’s time to pull out a secret stash of toys that have been held in reserve in our attic until she’s old enough to appreciate them. Appreciation will seem like a relative term when I tell you what this secret stash consists of: my old collection of Spice Girls dolls. These amazingly fashionable ladies (think pink hair, little plastic platform boots and tiny Union Jack mini dresses) were tossed into a trash bag and flung into one of our cars when we moved to our house five years ago and haven’t been seen since. But I think it might be time to let them see the light of day and bask in Lucy’s company.

Yes, they are buxom Barbie-style plastic stick figures with impossibly tiny waists, hips and thighs who will probably one day be deemed responsible (along with the mother who gave them to her) for warping her body image. But I have to admit that I am selfishly looking forward to seeing the dolls again and playing along with Lucy. The actual Spice Girls themselves are all moms now, too, and I’m sure they would understand and approve.