We jokingly called it “the daycare.”
The green backpack unfolded into a Pokémon playset, a plastic eyesore that consistently entertained a group of seven-year-olds for hours.
During the early months of the pandemic, I lugged the Pokémon Carry Case Playset to parks and playgrounds then marveled at how it occupied my younger son and his friends. No more complaints about being cold at their older brothers’ flag football games. No more whining about being bored at chilly soccer practices.
“Bring the backpack!” fellow moms texted me before games.
For a few weeks, I figured the playset was just a marvel of marketing—its whirlpool, cave, and treetop trapdoor irresistible to the kids. But as I watched my son splayed on the cold ground with his buddies one morning, making up extravagant stories about Pikachu and Eevee, I realized it was something else: the playset was like a portable play date, a childhood staple our kids were missing out on.
My sons, who were five and eight when the pandemic started, had few complaints. They dutifully wore their masks, made the best of remote learning, rolled with cancellations.
But one repeated request stung: their pleading for play dates. Could Hank come over to play Switch, even for just a few minutes? Could we invite Mikey for a sleepover if everyone wore masks overnight?
We didn’t call them playdates when I was little. You were simply invited over. You’d arrive at an entirely new house with different pets like a sheepdog named Arfie, older siblings who swore, an entirely new mom who served soda with dinner.
But really playdates were about the toys—the ones you didn’t have. I still remember who owned the Purple Pie Man from Strawberry Shortcake, the My Little Pony Dream Castle, Teddy Ruxpin. One friend had a set of delicate marionettes. Another displayed a disturbing number of glassy-eyed Madame Alexander dolls. And me? I’m sure I was the friend with the Malibu Barbie Dreamhouse, to someone.
I suspect this explains why the Pokémon backpack was such a hit. Packed with characters and hidden features, it was as close as these kids got to exploring each other’s bedrooms, peeking under beds and closets for forgotten figurines and dusty board games. After months of park meet-ups, placing the jam-packed playset on a blanket was like dumping a toy box in the middle of the family room and excitedly rifling through it.
We rarely ventured out without the backpack. Then came vaccinations and boosters, and playdates were mercifully, joyfully back on the calendar.
Five years on, our playdate days are numbered. My oldest is a teen, so if he has kids over, it’s more of a hang. And while my youngest still delights in having friends over, I realized recently that I hadn’t seen the backpack in a while.
I found the beloved toy, posted it on my local Buy Nothing page and gave it to a mom planning a Pokémon-themed birthday. The magic of the backpack would live on.
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Art by Lara Schaberg
