Building a Bear Empire

My daughter has bears. A lot of bears. And by some sheer stroke of luck, I’ve managed to not be present for the birth or financing of any of my daughter’s closet full of Build-a-Bears. Others bought them with her, so I had been able to delude myself about the cost.

She joins us as I take my first-timer three-year-old son to spend his birthday money at this palace of fluff.

I was shell shocked when I walked in. Build-a-Bear’s marketing and sales tactics are equal only to those in a street market in Jamaica. Both employ the “overwhelm the money out of them” method. My son quickly spots a Toothless-The-Dragon head and pulls it out of the sea of fake fur excitedly. He stares at its limp deflated little body with a WTF look on his face.

Our cheery sales lady accompanies us to the sound station (now I’m the one who probably looks very WTF). Listening to all kinds of ridiculous noises, I have a moment of clarity – is this included in the price? This was the first of many “stupid me” moments. You want sound? That’ll cost extra.

On to the stuffing station to give Toothless a heart. Even my cold, jaded soul thought that part was sweet. But wait – want a nicer heart? That’ll cost extra.

The stuffing process was immediately followed by a bath. My three-year-old had caught on to the fact that he could step on a pedal and shit happened, and he liked that. He had turned a corner – no longer overwhelmed by the riotous assault of rituals, he was enjoying the process. Me? I was still skeptical.

Cheery sales lady (who had started to catch on to my skepticism by now) asks if we want to pick out clothes. Cue brain to mouth sans filter – “Clothes? It’s a bloody dragon, it doesn’t wear clothes.”

Shit. I look like a jerk.

I attempt to recover by making a joke to not-as-cheery saleslady that the only thing a dragon wears is a saddle for Hiccup. “Oh, yes we have the saddle right here.” Fuck. Of course you do, and that’ll cost me extra. The sales lady smiles even wider. She was sadistically enjoying my pain, I’m sure of it.

Saddle in hand, I’m itching pay and escape before they make me drink the Kool-aid. But no, there were still two blows to my common sense to go.

Am I the only one who thinks it’s crazy to buy accessories for a stuffed animal? Sun glasses (because the light really bothers their plastic eyes?), Easter bunny ears, nicer hair extensions than a Kardashian and more shoes than Imelda Marcos. My bear-fan girl daughter thinks I’m the crazy one – all of this makes perfect sense to her.

Time to create a birth certificate – the final stage before we can pay and get the hell out. Toothless needs to be registered in case he’s lost. I’m shocked that this will not cost extra – but of course they want my email. Uncheck that box.

We finally make it to the cash register. I have a moment to breathe and take it all in. As I look around all I see is crap. But I notice one other thing too. My kids. Even my daughter, who is leaving empty-handed, has a huge smile on her face. The kids loved the whole experience.  

As cheery sales lady packs Toothless up, she asks my perma-grinned son if he wants a box or a back pack. One last assault before we’re free. Oh the backpack? That’ll cost extra.

I’m a marketer myself, so I can appreciate the business-savvy of this empire of bears (and cats, monkeys and dragons). But this day I discovered, there could be an upside for the mom in me too.

Cue empty handed girl child doing her best sweet daughter impression – “Mom, if I do all my chores can I save up for a Build a Bear?”

It’s been three days since the Build a Bear ordeal. I’ve never seen her room so clean or been offered so much help around the house. But the added chores she’s doing? That’s costing me extra.

Jill lives near Calgary with her husband and two sassy kids (who knows where that trait came from?). Like millions of others she balances the roles of career woman, mom, wife, and friend. Like other moms, Jill manages to keep it all together with a healthy dose of sarcasm, cynicism and a lot of f-bombs.