The other day I threw out or gave away all of my son, Clyde’s, toys. The only ones I kept were the ones that had some kind of sentimental value, and only then when they had sentimental value to me. (The broken wind-up toy that he got in Paris got to stay, while the still functioning Gameboy went to Goodwill. And as for the action figures, the only one that got to stay was the Martian Mindhunter, because, really, Martian Mindhunter is just fun to say.) Clyde didn’t make any fuss at all about the things I got rid of: in fact, sometimes I would hold up a particular toy and say, “What do you think, Clyde? Should we get rid of this?” and he wouldn’t say a single word against giving that item the heave-ho. “Well, okay then,” I would continue, “if you’re sure…” And into the trash (or Goodwill bag) it went.
Contrast Clyde’s reaction to the Great Toy Purge to that of the daughter of a friend of mine: this girl not only responded to the removal of just some of her toys with piteous wails, she also clung to the items as they were removed from the house like they were relatives being sent off to the camps. At one point the garbage can even became a sort of toy tomb where she sat and cried. (I’ve never really understood what exactly happens when somebody “gnashes their teeth,” but I’m thinking it probably looks very similar to what this child was doing.)
So why the big difference between the two children? True, Clyde is a few years older than this girl. And also, he is a boy (although as any mother of a son can tell you, boy drama can be just as potent as girl drama—sometimes even more so). But really, I think the biggest difference was distance: whereas the girl was right in the room as the Great Toy Purge was happening, Clyde was on a trip with his dad, half a world away.
Wait: you didn’t think that Clyde was actually in the room with me when I asked him if it was okay if I threw out this toy or that, did you? Of course not: do you think I’m crazy? No, operating under the assumption that it is usually easier to obtain forgiveness than permission, I waited until I knew that Clyde would be gone for a few days before I began the Great Purge. And if I did ask an imaginary Clyde what he thought of what I was doing a time or two, well, removing five bags of garbage, two bags of toys, three bags of clothing and enough books and games for a $100 Bookman’s credit does tend to make a person somewhat punchy, don’t you know.
When I suggested to my friend that she take the same approach the next time she embarks on another Purge of her own she demurred by saying, “But that wouldn’t be fair.” To which I replied, “I know: isn’t it great?”
Look, I used to be all about “playing fair,” too. And then I realized that me and my kids have very different notions of what “fair” actually means. To me, “fair” means that everyone gets an equal shot. To them, it means that they get what they want. Period. This is understandable: if I’m honest, I’ll admit that I would like to get what I want to get all of the time, too. But the difference is that at least I know what I want. I know that I’d rather have a clean room and a $100 Bookman’s credit than a pile of unused toys and ancient board books.
And I’m sure Clyde will, too. Just as soon as he notices.