People in glass houses shouldn't throw Build-a-Bears

From this week's Briefing:

When Cooper was a toddler, some of his favorite toys were the Little People playsets.

He would line up the animals two by two to march in and out of Noah's Ark. He would direct cars up and down the elevator and ramp of the garage. He would spend hours arranging a sheep and a cow, a goat and a chicken, a horse and a pig, plus Farmer Eddie, around the barnyard.

When he finished playing, I would help him place each character back in its own set. It was totally fine for the giraffes to ride the garage elevator or for Farmer Eddie to check out the deck of Noah's boat, but at the end of the day, those pieces needed to find their original homes.

Cooper was still an only child. His toy collection was small. I expected we'd always keep everything tidy and in its place. I was naïve.

One night before bath time, not all of the livestock made it back to the barn, but I didn't notice until it was too late. While Cooper was getting clean, one of our dogs procured the cow and gnawed on it like it was a real side of beef.

All that remained were shards of brown plastic.

I cleaned the evidence, fearful of how our son would react to the mangled toy, and vowed to never mention it. I also began a crazed search for a replacement cow to make the barnyard whole again.

Fisher Price didn't sell individual animals, so I briefly considered buying an entire new set, just to get a single cow. That was pushing it too far, I realized, so I turned to eBay. No one was peddling a lone cow, but there was a bag of random Little People creatures, including the one animal we needed.

I placed a bid, won the lot, ripped open the box when it arrived, fished out the coveted cow, washed it with dish soap and nestled it next to the chicken when Cooper wasn't looking.

Parenthood drives us to some strange places.

It's what causes grownups to stand in line at the mall for hours — hours! — with their toddlers and preschoolers, waiting for the opportunity to buy a stuffed animal at a reduced cost.

Build-A-Bear offered a now-infamous promotion earlier this month, promising to sell stuffed animals for $2 for a 2-year-old, $3 for a 3-year-old, etc. Stores across the country were overwhelmed with customers who lined up and set up camp for the bargain. Some fights were even reported. The promotion was shut down for safety concerns early in the day, long before everyone in line could choose a bear or bunny or unicorn for cheap.

My first reaction to this madness was relief that my children are now teenagers. We are in the bittersweet stage of culling our massive collection of stuffed animals rather than adding to it.

Second reaction: moderated scorn. Who would waste a summer day trapped in a line with hundreds of other families? Do these people not realize the value of their time? How on earth are they keeping those children calm while waiting?

Third reaction: empathy tinged with recognition. I'm not that far removed from the teddy bear days, from wanting a change of pace after being home for days at a time, from going to great lengths to make my tiny child happy — whether they know it or not.

Clearly, based on my shady past as a mom freaked out over an incomplete barnyard for a 2-year-old, I am in no position to question or judge. I can only learn from my own obsessions and questionable choices, while sometimes longing for the days when the biggest parenting crisis was a destroyed cow.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.