What will happen when she's 12?

We had such good intentions.

As we move along this path of parenthood, we had aspirations of shaping a child who found the simplest of pleasures the most joyous.

We fully envisioned ourselves buying only classic toys made of wood and lead-free paints, of course, and fostering in her the ideals that material pleasures are fleeting.

As most parents find, there are times when you wonder why you buy toys at all. That incredibly elaborate doll with life-like hair and blinking eyes sits alone in a corner as Ittybit rattles around with an empty milk jug and a clothespin.

Shake, shake, shaking with happiness.

Of course such delights are fleeting. As her interests in the jug wane we trip over ourselves to find the next toy that will hold her attention.

We cross our fingers and hope it’s not going to be the talking car or the singing ride-on tractor that plays “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” at an unalterable volume. Especially because we know as soon as it leaves the store in our possession she’ll be on to something else.

I tell you, finding the TOY OF THE CENTURY is a drug worse than crack.

Once you see that light in a child’s eye pulse with excitement over a deluxe, 39-inch plush pet that could very well be the envy of the neighborhood, pulling out the wallet and forking over the cash seems more like an involuntary reflex.

So what if you need a horse trailer to cart it home?

That’s how I remember it happened anyway.

The stand-still horse measures head and shoulders taller than our tyke but is eerily captivating with its butterscotch coat and round, shiny eyes. It wasn’t even in a store when the love affair started. It was in the home of a friend and the toy of choice for all visitors.

I thought it was so cute that I made a point to take Ittybit’s picture astride so I could show it to my sister, a consummate horse lover.

That was it. The seed was planted and what grew was a monster desire on the part of my family to procure such a beast.

I suppose I couldn’t resist. There’s something about a horse the size of a Great Dane, which plays “Home on the Range” out of one ear and clip-clop sounds from the other, that makes your heart just go pitter-pat.

Well, almost.

As the dutiful daughter, I got the scoop and transferred the information back to the gifting parties. It was a little dishonest, I must admit. I was confident that finding this toy would be like finding a needle in a haystack.

I was wrong. Within days the doe-eyed animal had been located and purchased, destined to become the third dog in our house, and larger than the other two at that.

Of course what is worse is the realization that Ittybit was given a pony on this her third official Christmas.

What will we have to get her when she’s 12?