I had another topic in mind for today—one that would ease us graciously into the Thanksgiving Week, but I cannot get “projectiles”: out of my mind. I’m referring to plastic projectiles that pop out of super-hero toys—nothing more serious than that. But it turns out these projectiles are elusive items. And big business too.

Here’s the problem. In a rare departure, we acquired a two-foot tall, blue-and-black plastic Batbot for a grandson who is turning four. Now before you gasp, please know that I found it in a resale shop for a teensy-tiny price. Immediately I let out a whoop, hauled it down, and brought it home to hide in Hank’s closet for a couple of months in anticipation of the birthday. Hank will be glad when it leaves his closet.

It turns out, though, that the teentsy-tiny price reflected the fact that all of its accoutrements were missing (I dare not say “accessories” because that sounds like Barbie). Plus one of its fighting arms has a catch in it, requiring a wrenching pull to make it punch.

But that part is okay. It’s also okay that the batman figure that should rise up on the platform inside its throat is gone (that sounds painful). A figure of Curious George will work equally well. The lack of the Bat-Mobile designed to spring out of this thing’s left boot is no problem either. The empty cavity will become a perfect place to hide raisins and kitchen gadgets that aren’t supposed to leave their drawers.

But the projectiles, that is a problem. After watching two YouTube videos to figure out how to operate this thing, I realized there should have been ten yellow plastic projectiles designed to pop out of its shoulders. Clearly these projectiles are somewhere in the house of the anonymous mom who dragged Batbot in for resale.

So I did what anyone in our modern era does: I got online to find replacements.

That’s when I nearly fell over. Perhaps I am the last person to learn that not every projectile projects from every projector. (Can I say that?) One has to match the projectile to the toy.

That’s problem number one. Plus, if you find the right replacement projectile, you will be paying for these as if they were carved out of semi-precious stones. Just three (three of ten, mind you) were going to cost me $16.75 plus about $8.95 for shipping. That is not happening.

For several days I mulled it over, hoping not just to locate cheap projectiles somewhere in cyberspace, but to find the right metaphor for the problem. “This dilemma symbolizes everything that’s wrong in our modern world,” I tried, but that’s too strong. “This proves what happens when we turn commerce into e-commerce and every random object suddenly has a place at the table” (as opposed to actual shelves where toymakers of the past knew space would be more economically allocated). Closer, but not quite it.

The real metaphor is a combination of carelessness and “supply and demand,” right? Kids shoot off the projectiles, lose them (because, hey it’s plastic and plastic is everywhere), and parents will be forced to pay whatever someone wants to charge for replacements. And since toys even by the same maker use different projectiles, the prospect of making money in the secondary-projectile market is endless.

That’s when I knew was in the wrong business. In addition to spending my adult life researching, teaching, playing the organ, and designing courses, I should also have learned to manufacture ersatz projectiles that would work in a variety of toys. If I had done so, priced them economically, and bumped them up high on Google, I’d be sitting on top of a financial empire.

When complaining to my husband, who really wants this robot out of his closet, he told me about the robot he had as a child. (We are speaking the 1950s here, so lower your expectations.) His beloved Robbie the Robot had a crank and a version of speech that proclaimed “I’m Robbie Robot, mechanical man. Drive me and steer me wherever you can.” The sound probably resembled a hoarse Chatty Cathy, but Hank was bowled over. Poor Robbie moved across the floor just as awkwardly as my beloved Patti-Playpal Walking Doll (walking dolls did not walk, no matter what the pictures in the Sears-Roebuck Catalogue showed).

The point is, we imagined our toys able to do all those things, and virtually everything else. Their halting gaits or low-tech voices were icing on the cake to what they did in our minds. They walked, they talked, they ran, they ate. Hey, they flew if we wanted them too. We didn’t expect their physical casings to do much at all.

Honestly, if I were a child today, I’d probably also beg for high-tech toys. I’d want them to gyrate and whiz along via remote-this and voice-activated that. And then I’d lament the sinking feeling in my tummy when I found myself bored with their antics. For that matter, perhaps Batbot didn’t end up in resale because the projectiles were missing. Perhaps Nick or Amelia or Joshua got tired of his “limitations” and moved on to something even higher-tech!

I don’t think that’s going to happen here with our four-year old. I suspect Batbot will be beloved, with or without batteries. He will be sleeping under the comforter each night and strapped into the spare car seat each day. (Wait, Batbot can sit down, right?)

What I really hope, though, is that we as grandparents, along with our adult children, can navigate the world of high-tech toys successfully. I pray we can maintain the status quo  where (gratefully) the grandkids’ favorite toys are boxes, booty from the kitchen, and sticks (the first toy God designed). And, wait, let us not forget those freely distributed red, green, yellow, and blue, Memoria Press capes that transform educational conferences into a sea of Latin-loving mini-scholars. Oh, if only we had thought of that genius marketing tool.

And I’ll happily continue in the role of mean-grandma who severely limits screen time and barks “You don’t need that stuff: go out and play.” Subtext: use your imagination.

Meanwhile, if anyone finds some projectiles that fit Mr. Batbot in a cigar box (outdated image) in your garage, I’d love to hear from you. For now, though, I’m pretty sure Batbot’s shoulder holes will be filled with twigs, pencils, crayons, and chopsticks, far more happily than they would have been with yellow plastic darts. A little boy’s imagination can do the rest.