Vol. 45 - The King Lives

On the things they love

One of the great joys of parenting is buying your kid a new toy. Or, more accurately, seeing their face when you give them a new toy. Or when you tell them you’re headed to the store where they can pick out a new toy.

Considering as much, we try to anticipate those toys that might make our kids happiest. We pay attention when they point out a toy at the store and tell them, “maybe next time,” only to sneak-buy it and give it to them a few days down the line. We piggyback off the things they love to play with, buying toys like them. And sometimes, those methods work and those toys become essential to your kids’ collections.

But other times, you buy something as a joke or in passing, something that really isn’t a toy at all, with no intent for it to give your kids weeks, months, and sometimes years of joy.

In our home, that role is played by The King.

You know the one.

Our King is about twelve inches tall and, just as he was in his famous ‘68 Comeback Special, he’s clad in black leather* pants and a matching jacket, his wrists wrapped in thick black leather* wristbands. A little Santa hat sits atop his head and a microphone stand rises between his legs.

At his feet, a small button that, when pressed, calls The King into action, brings him to life.

The King’s knees bounce from left to right, right to left, emulating the hip shake that was once so scandalous, it had to be censored from television.

A tiny recorded voice plays as The King’s hips thrust from side to side, his singular snarl singing either “Hound Dog” or “It’s Christmas Time Pretty Baby.”

I bought him at the nearby Lowe’s one holiday season, a few months before our son turned one. I was there for something else, something of utility, but of course, I wandered into the seasonal section, unable to resist the blinking lights and massive displays of holiday inflatables.

And there he was. Sitting on a shelf in a cardboard box, The King.

We unboxed him together and from the first press of the little button, our son was obsessed.

Every time we carried him past the mantle where The King lived that holiday season, our son would reach out to the little statue and, in his pre-language state, grunt to us, asking to press the little button that made The King sing and dance. Most nights, we would have to move The King from his rightful place on the mantle to our dinner table, as our son wanted The King to be right there beside his dinner plate. He would carry The King from one corner of our home to another, holding him by his leather*-clad leg, occasionally lifting him up and using his tiny and ever-more-dextrous pointer finger to call the song and dance into action.

And now our daughter—a bit older than our son was when I first brought The King home—does the exact same. She points to him, beckoning The King to her service. She claps and dances along as he reminds her that it’s Christmastime, pretty baby. And just as our son did then, our daughter drags him around our home by his leather*-clad leg, stopping to press the button, to hear those songs for the thousandth time.

I don’t know if The King will last forever in our home. I’ve already had to super glue his microphone back onto his stand at least twice. But I do know that someday, our kids will remember this twelve-inch piece of plastic and polyester as an integral part of our home, whether at Christmastime or not, more valuable than all of the toys that litter our floors, most of which will someday be forgotten.

The King is dead. Long live The King.

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*in our case, polyester.