I Feared My Daughter Loved Her Toys Too Much. When Tragedy Struck, The Truth Became Clear.

“What if she ends up caring more about material possessions than human relationships?”

When our daughter was preschool-aged, Princess Ariel dolls littered every room. Our once tranquil interior – a blend of coastal and cottage design – looked like an ill-kept aquarium full of plastic ornaments but no actual fish.

Our child dressed the part, too: Whether headed for the playground or grocery store, her tiny toes poked out beneath a sparkling green fishtail.

As a former clinical social worker, I knew imaginative play served an important role in child development, but I worried about the degree of fantasy we were helping her cultivate. I was also exhausted. While she twirled in a red wig, I was miscast in the role of Prince Eric. My throat ached from forcing a deep voice each day.

One evening, I found rose petals scattered around plastic doll furniture and knew a wedding ceremony was imminent, but I couldn’t bear another moment of make-believe. I begged my husband, Tomer, to take over.

“No way,” our daughter said. “Daddy’s no good at dolls. Mommy’s the best.”

It was a contest I wanted to lose, but never did. Tomer insisted he lacked creativity, but I suspected he was feigning incompetence to gain more personal time. When would I reclaim an adult life? His career was thriving, but I’d traded mine for full-time parenting.

Tomer tried to help out, but when left alone with our kid, he took her shopping for more toys. It was a strategy he employed to avoid actual playtime.

“I can’t sit on the floor,” he said. “It hurts my back.”

One morning, I found scissors beside a life-size styling head and followed a trail of synthetic hair into the bathroom, where red clumps clogged the toilet.

As I plunged the bowl,........

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