纽约时报 | 我的"Labubu狂热"女儿

有趣灵魂说

当一个10岁女孩迷上丑萌Labubu娃娃，母亲原以为只是寻常的玩具热潮，直到在抓娃娃机厅花费90加元却空手而归，女儿崩溃大哭时，她才意识到事情远非那么简单。这篇《纽约时报》客座评论以细腻笔触记录了一场母女与消费主义的正面交锋——从被网红潮流裹挟，到识破成瘾机制的陷阱，最终在柠檬水摊和存钱罐中找回生活的真实温度。这不仅是一个关于玩具的故事，更是对当下养育困境的深刻洞察：在这个即时满足的时代，我们该如何教会孩子辨别欲望与快乐？

译文为原创，仅供个人学习使用

The New York Times ｜Sunday Opinion

纽约时报 | 周日观点

Guest Essay客座评论

Rescuing My Daughter From the Cult of Labubu

从Labubu的狂热崇拜中拯救我的女儿

By Mireille Silcoff

Ms. Silcoff is a cultural critic.

西尔科夫女士是一位文化评论家。

Hunter French

我十岁女儿进入Labubu的世界起初是再天真不过了：她只是个想要一个娃娃的孩子。

那么，我那个平时体贴、稳重的十岁孩子，怎么会最终在蒙特利尔市中心一个满是抓娃娃机、充斥着哔哔啵啵声响的青少年街机厅里泪流满面呢？这，在某种程度上，是一个关于陷入狂热流行趋势虚假承诺的故事——在这个案例中，是涉及丑陋怪物娃娃的趋势。这也是一个关于我和我女儿如何重新找到出路的故事。

Labubu娃娃——看起来像是莫里斯·桑达克《野兽家园》里的怪物和猴子娃娃Monchhichi的混合体——在一年前变得极其流行，当时韩国流行组合Blackpink的成员Lalisa Manobal被人看到她的手提包上挂着一个Labubu。

拉莉莎之后，便是"痴心妄想"：Labubu开始出现在名人和时尚网红中，装饰着从蕾哈娜、杜阿·利帕到足球传奇大卫·贝克汉姆和网球冠军大坂直美等每个人的包包。到去年夏天，Labubu已经从成人时尚幼稚风的怪异图腾——一个看起来像廉价货的毛绒玩具，几乎像是作为对比，挂在价值10万美元的柏金包或百万富翁运动员的运动手提包上——变成了青少年强烈渴望的主流物品。Labubu，就像之前的椰菜娃娃、拓麻歌子或豆豆娃一样，成了孩子们想要的东西，仅仅因为所有孩子都想要它。

我曾天真地以为，当一位家人带我女儿去蒙特利尔唐人街吃晚饭，并花10加元给她买了一个仿冒的Labubu——孩子们称之为"Lafufu"——时，我已经避开了这整个疯狂。她给她的娃娃取名为泰勒·热内罗，并用碎布片为它缝制了巧妙的小衣服。她从她的玩具箱里为泰勒·热内罗挖掘配件，从她最近刚不再玩的美国女孩娃娃和卡利科小动物收藏中挑选出零碎部件。

我起初对这个短暂的现象并不介意，因为我认为Labubu终究只是一个玩具：是即使是一个正在迅速长大的孩子也可以玩的东西。像许多Alpha世代孩子的父母一样，我对我孩子想在Temu或Shein这样的在线购物网站上花费的时间既感到震惊又害怕。所以我喜欢Labubu像以前的菲比娃娃或搔痒笑娃娃一样难以获得。你不能仅仅点击一下按钮就订购一个。你必须制定策略，或者至少需要等待。

如果说社交媒体是千禧一代和Z世代无意识刷屏和"卧床躺平"的主要出口，那么对于像我女儿这样的Alpha世代成员来说，他们偏好的兴奋点似乎是在线购物。能够想到某样东西——一个迷你刨冰机、一个企鹅形状的水瓶、可以"手拉手"的磁性袜子——然后在一分钟内就在网上找到它，并且可以选择点击一下就获得它，这似乎对某些孩子的大脑来说是无法抗拒的诱惑。Labubu对我女儿来说代表了一个罕见的延迟满足的例子，在那种意义上，让我感到一种令人安心的安全和复古。

然后，七月份的一周日间夏令营来了。

我女儿出发时，泰勒·热内罗还高高兴兴地挂在她背包上。那天下午她回到家，报告说要把泰勒从她的包里拿下来。她解释说，她曾以为真正的Labubu是不可能找到的，但一位夏令营辅导员告诉她，在蒙特利尔确实有一个地方可以弄到真正的Labubu。事实上，这位辅导员就有三个。据这位辅导员说，这很容易。她只需要赢一个，或者更具体地说，在市中心的一个抓娃娃机厅里，用爪子抓住它。

在蒙特利尔，抓娃娃机厅对于孩子们来说是无法抗拒的地方，但对于他们患有偏头痛的中年母亲来说则是诱因，它们是这类场所宇宙中一个相当新的补充。就像令人讨厌的万圣节主题快闪店一样，抓娃娃机厅倾向于殖民那些因在线购物兴起、远程工作和曾经有用的实体世界的普遍动荡而倒闭的商店所空出的空间。在过去三代人时间里，那里可能矗立着一家家族经营的百货商店，能够满足从婴儿初生用品到矫形鞋的整个生命周期需求，而现在，那里却立着一个LED灯照明、收割多巴胺的街机厅，里面装满了旨在将我们最年轻的消费者变成狂热、瞪大眼睛的瘾君子的机器。

我们的具体目的地是蒙特利尔市中心一家较为高档的抓娃娃机厅。在里面，必须投入厚厚一叠代币才能有机会从机器浅堆的奖品中抓取东西的有机玻璃箱子，数量远远超过了传统的电子游戏和弹球机。使用抓娃娃机时，你的工具是一个由操纵杆控制的、松散且滑溜的附属物，末端是一个三指钳子，在任何其他情境下都会被认定为有缺陷。除了最廉价的奖品外，几乎不可能抓到任何东西——但只要第一次尝试就抓到一个玩具橡胶球，就会让孩子相信更多的收获肯定在望。抓娃娃机厅对孩子们来说就像是拉斯维加斯——带辅助轮的赌场。

我们在到达之前并没有意识到这一点。我反而想的是，我和女儿会一起度过一些高质量的时光。自从她到了十岁，开始用肯德里克·拉马尔的海报和丝芙兰的条纹包装饰她的房间后，我就更难接近她了。每当我凑过去想亲她一下，她就开始说："个人空间，妈妈！"这种情况让我感觉我的子宫在哭泣。

我想，一个母女外出的下午正是我们所需要的：我们去这个街机厅，拿到梦寐以求的Labubu，然后去附近吃披萨。我设想我和我的孩子咯咯笑着，手牵着手。我会亲吻她的头顶，而她不会退缩。

抓娃娃机厅里面有三台机器，里面的奖品是真正的Labubu。我们前面有一个庞大的、几代同堂的家庭，他们的篮子里已经有两个Labubu盒子了。"看，他们已经赢了两次了！"我女儿拍着手说，迫不及待要开始了。

我买了20加元的代币——在五分钟内，我们四次尝试抓取Labubu都失败了。所以我又买了20加元，又失败了。旁边的那个家庭开始帮助我们，这样那样地摇晃机器，而我女儿则越来越有干劲地操纵着操纵杆。我又买了更多的代币，我女儿越来越快地把它们投进投币口，等到我们结束时，我已经花了90加元，我们没有得到任何Labubu，而我女儿，平时在她新获得的青春期前盔甲下总是那么沉着，此刻却崩溃地哭了起来。

"我简直不敢相信！"她哭着说。"我们一个也没抓到！"

另一个家庭的爸爸站在我们旁边，用理解的眼神看着我们，我现在注意到他的眼神也很疲惫。

"你应该知道，我们已经在这里待了三个小时了，"他说。"我花了500加元。"

我们没有赢得一个Labubu。我女儿整个晚上都沮丧得无法安慰。第二天早上，她坐在我们的沙发上，揉着眼睛，看起来几乎像宿醉未醒。

"我甚至不知道昨天发生了什么，"她茫然地说。"我感觉我疯了。"

我告诉她，我当时也感觉完全失控了，并且她绝对不是疯了。我们被耍了。

"被什么？"她问。

我想：被一种在我们需要意义时却提供消费的文化？被商业对创造力的亵渎？被这样一个事实：网络世界已经感染了我们，让我们对越来越多能即时获得的东西产生了一种永不满足的需求，以及一种永远无法满足的、轻率的欲望冲动？

但我只说："现在有很多东西让人们不断地认为他们想要这想要那。那些抓娃娃的地方就是设计来让孩子们上瘾的，它们是坏地方。"

我女儿点了点头。"绝对是坏地方。"

我带着身为母亲的愧疚感坐着。是我开车带她去了那个地方。是我不断地打开我的钱包，而不是做出克制的榜样。就好像她想得到娃娃的欲望和我想让女儿开心的欲望在错误意图的烈火中碰撞在了一起。但这次不幸的经历最终确实为我们俩带来了一个令人难忘因而有效的教育时刻：我们一起直面了有害的消费主义，它剥去了所有诱惑，赤裸裸地展现了其空洞的本质。

话虽如此，她确实得到了一个Labubu。

在我们前一天晚上离开抓娃娃机厅时，我们了解到，在出口处，你可以直接花85加元买一个真正的Labubu。到了那个时候，我女儿明白了，既然已经在抓娃娃机上投入了90加元，我绝不可能再花更多的钱在Labubu上了。

于是第二天，她开始工作了。

她在街上卖柠檬水。她省下零用钱。她把存钱罐里的硬币分类并卷起来。她开始做按摩生意，每次两加元，客户只有一位。最后，她告诉我她攒够了钱，需要再回一趟抓娃娃机厅。

那年夏天剩下的时间里，我女儿把她新买的、名字奇怪的真正的娃娃——"精力充沛Labubu"——装在一个透明的包包里，就像一个便携的展示柜。在她买了这个娃娃之后，我让她记了几周的Labubu日记，记录她对它的感受。我想让她看到流行趋势是如何运作的：你以为这个东西会改变你的生活，但没过多久，它就变成了一件塑料垃圾。

开学第一天她把娃娃带到了学校。当她回家时，我问她她的朋友们是否对她的Labubu感兴趣。

"不怎么感兴趣，"她有点傲慢地说。"她们也有Labubu。"

然后她问我晚饭吃什么。我告诉她烤鸡和胡萝卜汤。

就在那时，我知道我们家这个充满怪物娃娃欲望的夏天，我们的Labubu抓娃末日，终于结束了。我们有伤痕，是的，但我们也更聪明了，而且现在我们自由了。

"我不知道你为什么还在说那么多关于Labubu的事，妈妈，"她一边摆桌子，一边像个大女孩一样拿出餐垫，甚至我都没叫她这么做。"它们真的没什么大不了的。"◾

Mireille Silcoff is an author and a cultural critic who lives in Montreal.

米雷耶·西尔科夫是一位作家和文化评论家，居住在蒙特利尔。

My 10-year-old daughter’s entry into the universe of Labubu was innocent enough: She was a kid who wanted a doll.

So how did my usually thoughtful and steady 10-year-old wind up in tears in the middle of a bleeping, blooping tween arcade full of claw machines in downtown Montreal? This is, in part, a story about getting stuck in the false promise of a rampant trend cycle — in this case, one involving ugly monster dolls. It’s also a story about how my daughter and I found a way out again.

Labubu dolls— which look like a cross between a Maurice Sendak “Where the Wild Things Are” monsterand a Monchhichi— became extremely trendy a year ago when a Labubu was seen danglingfrom the handbag of Lalisa Manobal, who goes by Lisa, of the South Korean pop group Blackpink.

Après Lalisa, la delulu: Labubus popped up among celebrities and style influencers, ornamenting the bags of everyone from Rihanna and Dua Lipa to the soccer legend David Beckham and the tennis champion Naomi Osaka. By last summer, Labubus had gone from being a weird totem of adult fashion juvenilia — a junky-looking fuzzy toy hanging, almost as counterpoint, from $100,000 Birkin bags or the sports totes of millionaire athletes — to a mainstream object of intense juvenile desire. Labubus, like Cabbage Patch Kid dolls, Tamagotchis or Beanie Babies before them, became the thing kids wanted simply because all kids wanted it.

Naïvely, I thought I’d sidestepped the whole mishegas when a family member took my daughter out for dinner in Montreal’s Chinatown and bought her, for $10, a knockoff Labubu — what the kids refer to as Lafufus. She named her doll Tyler Janeiro (after her most recent musical hero Tyler, the Creator and her favorite body spray, Sol de Janeiro) and sewed small, ingenious clothes for it out of scraps of fabric. She excavated accessories for Tyler Janeiro from her toy bin, culling odds and ends from her American Girl doll and Calico Critters collections left over from other toy phases she’d recently outgrown.

I was initially fine with this temporary phenomenon because I thought Labubus were, in the end, merely a toy: something that a child — even one who is growing up quickly — could play with. Like many parents of Gen Alpha kids, I’m both astounded and terrified by the amount of time my child wants to spend on online shopping sites like Temu or Shein. So I liked that Labubus, like the Furbys or Tickle Me Elmos of yore, were difficult to acquire. You couldn’t just order one with the click of a button. You had to strategize, or at least to wait.

If social media is the main outlet for mindless scrolling and bed rot for millennials and Gen Z-ers, then for members of Gen Alpha, like my daughter, the preferred rush seems to be online shopping. The ability to think of something — a miniature snow cone maker, a water bottle shaped like a penguin, magnetic socks that can hold hands — and then actually find it online in a minute, with the option to click once and procure it, seems like catnip to certain kids’ brains. (And adult brains, too. Believe me, I have known plenty of midnight marathons on the RealRealwebsite.) The Labubu represented a rare example of delayed gratification for my daughter and, in that way, felt to me comfortingly safe and retro.

Then came a week of day camp in July.

My daughter headed off with Tyler Janeiro affixed happily to her backpack. She returned home that afternoon to report that she was removing Tyler from her bag. She’d believed that real Labubus were impossible to find, she explained, but a camp counselor, who I will here call Chad because Chad is a name I don’t like, told her that there was one place in Montreal where you could, in fact, get real Labubus. Chad, in fact, had three. It was easy, according to Chad. She’d just need to win one or, more specifically, to catch it with a claw, in a claw machine, at a claw-machine arcade downtown.

In Montreal, claw-machine arcades are a fairly new addition to the universe of places that are irresistible to children and triggering to the migraine syndromes of their middle-aged moms. Like the dreaded pop-up Halloween shop, claw-machine arcades tend to colonize spaces vacated by bankrupted stores undone by the rise of online shopping, remote work and the general upheaval of the once-useful physical world. Where for three generations there stood, say, a family-owned department store that could service an entire life cycle of needs, from baby layettes to orthopedic shoes, there now stands an LED-lit, dopamine-harvesting arcade, equipped with machines designed to turn our youngest consumers into rabid, saucer-eyed addicts.

Our specific destination was one of the more upscale claw arcades in downtown Montreal. Inside, Plexiglas boxes into which a thick stack of tokens must be fed for the chance to grasp prizes from the machine’s shallow pile vastly outnumbered the traditional video games and pinball machines. With the claw machine, one’s tool is a loose, slippery appendage powered by a joystick, with a three-fingered pincer at the end that in any other context would be deemed defective. All but the cheapest of prizes are nearly impossible to catch — but just one toy rubber ball grabbed at the first try will convince a child that more bounty is sure to come. Claw-machine arcades are like Vegas for kids — casinos with training wheels.

I did not realize this before we arrived. I thought instead that my daughter and I would spend some quality time together. Since she’d hit 10 and begun adorning her room with Kendrick Lamar posters and striped bags from Sephora, it had been harder for me to reach her. She’d started saying, “Personal space, Mama!” whenever I went in for a kiss, a situation that made me feel like my uterus was crying.

A girls’ afternoon out, I thought, was just what we needed: We’d go to this arcade, get the coveted Labubu, then go for pizza nearby. I envisioned me and my kid giggling and holding hands. I’d kiss the top of her head and she would not flinch.

Inside the claw arcade were three machines in which the prizes were genuine Labubus. A large, multigeneration family in front of us already had two Labubu boxes in their basket. “Look, they’ve already won twice!” clapped my daughter, eager to get started.

I’d bought $20 in tokens — and within five minutes we’d failed four times to claw a Labubu. So I bought $20 more, and failed again. The nearby family began to help us, jiggling the machine this way and that while my daughter maneuvered the joystick with more and more gumption. I bought still more tokens, my daughter feeding them into the slot faster and faster, and by the time we were done, I’d spent $90, we had no Labubu and my daughter, usually so composed in her newly acquired preteen armor, dissolved into tears.

“I can’t believe it!” she cried. “We didn’t get any!”

The dad from the other family stood next to us, watching with understanding eyes, which I now noticed were also exhausted eyes.

“You should know we’ve been here for three hours,” he said. “I’ve spent $500.”

We did not win a Labubu. My daughter was inconsolable the entire evening. The following morning, she sat down on our sofa, rubbing her eyes, almost looking hung over.

“I don’t even know what happened yesterday,” she said, dazed. “I feel like I was crazy.”

I told her that I’d also felt completely beside myself, and that she was definitely not crazy. We’d been played.

“By what?” she asked.

And I thought: By a culture that offers us consumption when we need meaning? By the desecration of creativity through commerce? By the fact that the online world has infected us with an insatiable need for more and more instantly attainable stuff and a heedless rush of desire that can never be satisfied?

But all I said was: “There’s a lot around now that makes people constantly think they want things. Those claw places are designed to make kids addicted, and they are bad places.”

My daughter nodded. “Definitely bad places.”

I sat with my mom guilt. I was the one who drove her to that place. I was the one who kept opening my purse, rather than modeling restraint. It was as though her desire to get the doll and my desire to make my daughter happy had collided in a conflagration of misguided intentions. But this misadventure did ultimately result in an unforgettable, and thus effective, teachable moment for both of us: Together, we’d come face to face with pernicious consumerism, stripped of any seductions, in all its flagrant emptiness.

That said, she did get a Labubu.

As we were leaving the claw arcade the night before, we’d learned that, at the exit, you could buy a genuine Labubu straight-up for $85. By that point, my daughter understood that, having already pumped 90 bucks into the claw machines, there was no way I could spend any more money on Labubus.

So the next day she got to work.

She sold lemonade on the street. She saved her allowance. She sorted and rolled coins from her piggy bank. She made a business of giving two-dollar massages to a clientele of one (me). Finally, she told me that she had enough money and would need to return to the claw arcade.

My daughter carried her new, genuine doll, the strangely named Big Into Energy Labubu, in a transparent purse like a portable display cabinet for the rest of the summer. After she bought the doll, I asked her to keep a Labubu diary for a couple of weeks, noting how she felt about it. I wanted her to see how fads work: how you think the thing will change your life but, not much later, it’s become just a piece of plastic clutter.

She brought the doll to school for the first day. When she came home, I asked her whether her friends were interested in her Labubu.

“Not really,” she said, a little haughtily. “They got Labubus, too.”

Then she asked me what was for dinner. I told her roast chicken and carrot soup.

It was then that I knew our family’s summer of monster doll desire, our Labubu clawpocalypse, was finally over. We were scarred, yes, but we were smarter, too, and now we were free.

“I don’t know why you are still talking so much about Labubus, Mama,” she said as she set the table, pulling out the place mats like a big girl, without my even asking her to. “They are really not that big a deal.”