Toys of the 80s & 90s: The Ultimate Christmas Wishlist

December 1987

I still have the list. I found it in a box in my parents' attic last year, written in pencil on lined paper, the handwriting of a nine-year-old who wanted everything and knew he'd get maybe two things if he was lucky.

1. Castle Grayskull

2. Optimus Prime (the big one)

3. Nintendo

4. Teddy Ruxpin

5. G.I. Joe aircraft carrier

That last one was pure fantasy. The U.S.S. Flagg was seven feet long and cost like a hundred dollars. But a kid could dream.

The Hierarchy of Want

There were the toys you actually expected to get - the twenty-dollar range, the reasonable asks. Then there were the toys you put on the list just in case your parents had secretly won the lottery and forgot to mention it. Castle Grayskull was in that second category for me.

It cost fifty-nine dollars in 1985. I know this because I stared at the price tag at Toys R Us so many times I memorized it. Gray plastic castle with a working jaw bridge and a trap door and - this was the big one - a microphone that made your voice sound like a demon when you spoke into it.

I never got Castle Grayskull. My friend Eric had one, and I basically lived at his house that entire winter.

The Transformers Wars

Optimus Prime was the dividing line between families. If you had Optimus Prime, your parents loved you. If you had the knockoff version from the discount store - Optimus Prime's weird cousin with the sticker that peeled off after a week - your parents were doing their best but times were tough.

My brother got Optimus Prime in 1986. I got Bumblebee, which was fine, but let's be real: Bumblebee was the Volkswagen Beetle of Transformers. Optimus was a semi truck that turned into a robot with a face mask. There was no comparison.

I spent hours transforming Bumblebee back and forth. You'd think it would get boring but it never did. Robot to car, car to robot. There was something meditative about it. Something perfect about the way all the pieces clicked into place.

The Teddy Ruxpin Incident

Teddy Ruxpin terrified me. I'll say it. That bear with the moving eyes and mouth, reading stories from cassette tapes in a voice that sounded almost-but-not-quite human? That's horror movie stuff.

My cousin Ashley had one, and she loved it. She'd bring it to family gatherings and make it "talk" to everyone. I would find excuses to be in a different room.

Then one night at her house, the batteries started dying while Teddy was mid-story. His voice got slower and deeper, like a demon bear emerging from the depths. His eyes stopped moving but his mouth kept going. Ashley screamed. I may have also screamed. That bear spent the rest of the night in the closet, facing the wall.

The 90s Changed Everything

When the Super Soaker hit in 1990, water fights would never be the same. Before that, we had little plastic squirt guns that shot maybe six feet if you were lucky. The Super Soaker 50 had a pressurized chamber. You could nail someone from across the yard.

Then they kept making them bigger. The CPS 2000 was basically a war crime. That thing held a gallon of water and could blast someone from thirty feet away. Neighborhood water fights became arms races. Kids whose parents couldn't afford the new models would form alliances against kids who could. It was Lord of the Flies with neon plastic.

The Beanie Baby Delusion

I need to talk about Beanie Babies because my mother still has a box of them in her attic that she insists will "be worth something someday."

They won't, Mom. I'm sorry. The Beanie Baby market crashed in 1999 and it's not coming back.

But in 1996? In 1996, we all believed. Tag protectors were essential because a bent tag could cost you hundreds of dollars (allegedly). People waited in lines for new releases. There was a whole Beanie Baby price guide, like they were stocks.

My mom has a Princess Diana bear somewhere in that attic. She paid forty dollars for it on eBay in 1998, convinced it would fund my college education. My college education was funded by student loans. The bear is still in a plastic case, still protected, still worthless.

Christmas Morning, 5:47 AM

You'd wake up before anyone else. Creep down the hallway in the dark. Pause at the top of the stairs to see if the lights were on - they never were, your parents were still asleep because it was literally 5 AM.

Then the living room. The tree with presents underneath. That specific magical quality of Christmas morning light, gray and cold and full of possibility.

I'd examine every package, trying to guess what was inside without actually opening anything. Shaking them - my mom hated when I did that. Pressing on the wrapping paper to feel the shape beneath.

The waiting was almost as good as the opening. Almost.

What Made Those Toys Different

Here's what I think about now, watching my kids with their iPads and video games:

Those toys made you do the work. Optimus Prime didn't transform himself. Castle Grayskull didn't generate its own adventures. You had to supply the imagination, the stories, the voice for the demon microphone.

Your G.I. Joe figures were actors in plays you wrote and directed. Your Hot Wheels cars were racing in championships you invented. The toy was a starting point, not an endpoint.

I don't know if that was better. I really don't. My kids have plenty of imagination. But there was something about those physical objects, those chunks of plastic that you held and manipulated and created worlds around.

I still have Bumblebee somewhere. Yellow plastic, a little worn, the stickers mostly gone. He's not worth anything to anyone but me. But when I hold him, I'm nine years old again, transforming him back and forth in my room, making up stories about a robot from space who became a car to hide among humans.

That's worth more than any holographic Charizard.