I love you. We are supposed to be friends. I am here to play with you, keep you company. Entertain you when mommy needs a time out. Supposed to help you learn and explore new things. Listen to new sounds, see new shapes and colors, and be the little baby that you are. But here lately, I am thinking about calling the toy abuse hotline. You hurt me. You hurt me deep, kid. Why must you always pick us up like we are a rag doll and chunk us across the room as hard as you can. I mean, you are only one, but you've got an arm on you there buddy! I maybe made of plastic, but I am not steel. We have feelings, too. Haven't you seen Toy Story? That's my family there, kid! Do you want me laying around all day like this? I know your mom and dad love you very much, but they can't afford to go out and buy you new toys everytime you actually smash one and it shatters. Luckily, this hasn't happened yet, or we would be having big problems here little guy. Although, you have mangaged to break the sound in a few things and you wonder why it isn't working anymore. This actually amuses me.
So, us toys in your house have decided to give you another chance. Maybe your parents will get lucky with that arm of yours and you will go into the Major Leagues someday. Until then, please proceed with caution. I know you're a boy, but must you always do this? Maybe we should go back to stuffed animals?
Your toy box