A bad picture of Marshall and Ian looking at the Sunday circulars
It took less than 24 hours for the commercialism that permeates this here country of ours to infect us to the bones. After a visit to my nephew's house and dear friends that put us up in Eugene while we waited for our place to be ready, we had needs that had evaded us for months. Their toy collections were intimidating and it didn't take long once we were settled for Ian to look at me one morning and say, "Marshall needs more stuff."
"Stuff" was defined as riding toys, learning consoles and things with wheels. No matter that this child's "toy" box in Mali was about the size of two shoe boxes at its biggest and mainly filled with cardboard tubes, old water bottles and other trash. No matter they were reduced to fitting in my diaper bag on return. He needed stuff. Our parental egos were quickly beaten to a pulp and we subconsciously vowed to keep Target in business, whatever it took.
9 months later, TV commercials still stress me out. They make me worry about my bills, drive me to think about high paying jobs and make me feel inadequate at every turn. I can't go to Target without spending at least 20% more than I had intended. And now, it will take at least half the moving truck to move Marshall alone. The scariest thing to me is that we are totally conscious of it, yet unmoved by our realizations.
Sure, I could turn off the TV, move to a commune and leave it all behind. I could throw out all the toys and focus on sticks in our garden and the excitement of what can be made with crayons and a piece of recycled mail. But where's the fun in that?
