Talking to Toys

I find myself talking to toys a lot. My son does the voices for them and I talk back. I even do the voices myself sometimes. Most of the time, though, I am responding to the words my son puts in the inanimate objects. They tell me where they are going or ask me questions and I respond in great detail, in a happy voice. I hug them and even kiss them when they need it. I think that's all great. It encourages my son's imagination, vocabulary and social skills (talking airplanes always say "please" and "thank you" and share with others).

It's the other times I talk to the toys that worry me. The times when my son is not in the room and I speak to toy robots or cars.

"If he can't keep you off the floor, I'm going to throw you away," I say to a truck that has nearly killed me by being under my feet.

"I hate you," I growl to a flashlight that makes loud train noises when I touch it.

"For the love of God, shut up," I tell the talking robot.

"I won't do this forever," I whisper to the firetruck whose ladder I have once again affixed to its proper place. "Eventually you'll be called broken and we'll all get past the boy's weeping and wailing in mourning for you and move on."

As you can tell, these conversations are often angry and threatening. It's not the fault of the toys really. They can't help getting broken or how noisy they are or where my son places them in an attempt to break my neck. But they take the brunt of my anger about these situations and it's not really fair to them.

I am very kind to the stuffed animals. All the animals, in fact. I am quite fond of Lulu and Luke, the plastic salamanders, and even "ssssss", the cleverly named plastic snake. It's the cars and trucks and robots and noisy things that get my ire. And, since my son feels that only toys with wheels are real playthings, they account for most of the toys in the house. The animals live in a very small basket and the stuffed toys are in the closet since there's no room for them and the wheely toys (I tell them to come out of the closet, that I'm fine with them and will not judge them nor send them off to some Ted Haggard-type retraining school, but in the closet they remain).

I hope that all this is not indicative of some disorder I may have. Is there such a thing as ATTS (Anger Towards Toys Syndrome)? I think there should be. And I think the prescribed treatment should be a weekend alone in a toy-free hotel with a large jacuzzi, a bunch of scented candles, and a vat of wine. I wonder if that is covered by my health insurance insurance plan?