I don’t collect Pop Funkos, at least not consciously.

I have a good deal of them, I’d say. I’m not in the same league as those people who have an entire office wall dedicated to the rarest ones you can only find at San Diego Comic Con on Saturday when the wind blows north and an icy chill has gripped the southern isles and all the herons fly in a circular pattern above the church where they’ve just blessed a baby born to a single mother.

No, most of mine were gifts. Mainly from students, but from some family too. There’s something about them, I guess, that hits every fan demographic. Movies, video games, comics, you name it, they have a figurine of it.

So, that being said, it does rip at my Nerd Heart (C) a little bit when I see my son asking me to open the box for him. The most HEINOUS of nerd actions. He brings it over, sets it in my lap, and taps his little hands together as if he’s saying, “Hey, this looks like fun! Why can’t I have the fun that’s in that box?” Then he rubs his belly, which is ASL for saying “Please” and he gives me the little puppy eyes, because this is Baby A we’re talking about and he’s a puppy in human form, then I have to say no to him, breaking his little heart…

…still doesn’t stop him from trying to break into it.

They’re sleeping, now, so I can write about them and they won’t know about it.

Thanks for reading,

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