During the last eight months I have become a prized catch on the "Suckers Who Can't Stop Spending Money on Their Babies" mailing list that all the catalog companies keep selling to each other. We get at least two new toy- or child safety- or diaper-related catalogs every single week. Yesterday I got one that claimed on its cover to be stocked with toys that would stimulate the mind of my baby. The first page I opened up to featured clingy hot-pink princess costumes and a case of play makeup that would rival Tammy Faye's. Straight to recycling, thank you.

We did get one last week that caused me to weasel out of dinner duties and actually sit on the couch, going through it page by page with a little half-smile on my face and noting all the things I would like to buy for Elaine. A commemorative edition set of Lincoln Logs in a tin canister. Colorforms. The Corn Popper Push-Along. The Fashion Designer (in my day, it was called Fashion Plates). Those of you who are up to date on Elaine's age (she's pushing 9 months) or the developmental probabilities of an 8-something-month-old are probably wondering if I'm smart enough to know that those toys are way too old for my daughter. I am. But that doesn't stop me from looking. (And having irrational thoughts of buying things now that I can give to her in four years.)

The point is, I realized that the toys I most look forward to sharing with her are those I have wonderful memories of myself. The ones I was drooling over last week mostly fall into the category of things I enjoyed before age 7, back when my innocence was still somewhat intact. Then a girl who lived around the block from me, whom we shall call Emma , explained to me about "humping." And I and my most treasured friend in the world, whom we shall call Elizabeth, discovered the joys of blue eyeshadow. And I believe that starting around this time and for many subsequent years, Elizabeth and I were nearly tirelessly overjoyed by making prank phone calls as well. I would guess that the itinerary of an average afternoon or evening we spent in each other's company went something like this:

1) Eat some Planter's Cheez Balls.
2) Close ourselves in her bedroom, change Barbie and Ken's clothes a few times, then make them hump in or near the pool of Elizabeth's Barbie Dream House. (She had one. I didn't. I was deprived.)
3) Close ourselves in her mother's bathroom and apply any and everything that was colored to our faces, particularly our eyelids -- it being the '80s, all the way up to the eyebrows was a look we found especially fetching.
4) Close ourselves in the office/unused bedroom at the back of the house and randomly dial numbers and say idiotic things to strangers. This was obviously well in advance of the age of caller ID. And we didn't call people we knew, or call with the purpose of saying disgusting or scary things (probably would have been a bit of a stretch to try to make a 7-year-old girl's voice sound spooky, in any case). We just thought it was generally hysterical to use the phone to get people's attention. Anyone's. I'm sure we made people mad more than once, but I doubt we ever ruined anyone's day.
5) Sneak downstairs, swipe one of her mom's packs of Salems, use a pin to poke holes in all the cigarettes, and put the pack back where we found it.


Obviously, I'm not likely ever to encourage Elaine to do *all* the things I remember fondly from childhood.

But I do love the things I remember when I see toys I haven't thought about in 25 years. I loved building a Lincoln Log cabin as a centerpiece for our Thanksgiving table every year. I can remember the sound the Push-Along Popper made. I can practically smell the wonderfully musty, leafy smell of our cottage, where I would sit on the floor and make colored rubbings with the Fashion Plates. And I love to think of Elaine forming memories like that.