My sister’s childhood bookcase still stands in the office I used to share with her before she went to college. Dusty SAT prep books sit where there were once Goosebumps novels. All her corn-blond dolls have been supplanted by tattered, used textbooks and college-ruled notebooks. It could be the bookcase of any old enterprising high schooler, except for the haphazard row of dusty stuffed animals slumped on the top shelf. Webkinz.

Her old Webkinz, to be exact. I last saw my Webkinz being dumped in a cardboard box the height of my chest. After one moving day and two weeks of anticipatory unpacking, my parents gently broke the news that my Webkinz had been sent “to storage,” the plush toy version of the farm upstate where all pets eventually go. I was devastated, for about three days. And then I didn’t think about Webkinz again for five years.

In retrospect, I’ve noticed that Webkinz were kind of a big deal. This simple combo of a plushie, a corresponding Internet avatar, and a Neopets-esque website became the spiritual heir to the Tamagotchi. Economic journals referred to Webkinz as “Beanie Babies on steroids” (Bulik). Without airing a single commercial, Webkinz became the dark horse of the Great Recession-era toy industry, drawing thousands of little kids to the vast world of the web.

Webkinz were groundbreaking, but hardly anyone has questioned the means of their success. How did these ragged plushies with an admittedly clever tech-related appeal beguile the children of parents who were more familiar with floppy disks than Flappy Bird? How were Webkinz influential enough to make “[t]he web...ubiquitous” for kids all over America (qtd. in York)? Perhaps more importantly, how did owning Webkinz change us so thoroughly that parents are still freaking out about our use of technology after eight years?

Though Webkinz were released in 2005, parents didn’t seem to notice them until 2007, when kids started coming home from school with Webkinz fever instead of lice. In January, reporters proclaimed that Webkinz were “following in the footsteps of some of the great word-of-mouth marketing success stories” (Bulik). By February, the website Webkinz World was receiving 2.8 million unique visitors a month (Tedeschi). Webkinz spread from playground to playground like swine flu; it wasn’t long until every kid I knew had at least two or thirteen.
Kids were fascinated by how they could “put [a Webkinz] on the computer and see it...walk[] and stuff,” but owning no Webkinz had more consequences than simply missing out on an innovation in toy technology (qtd. in Chen). Lunchtime conversations revolved around who had bought the vaunted Webkinz unicorn. Kids would gossip about the latest Webkinz World news between cursive lessons. Those of us without Webkinz were excluded from conversations with our au courant contemporaries; to avoid alienation, elementary schoolers began swarming into Hallmarks, shaking down toy stores for raccoon Webkinz, commandeering their parents to perform manhunts for the elusive “bullfrog or the alley cat” (McGinn).

But, we were soon motivated to collect Webkinz by more than just loneliness. I remember watching prepubescent Webkinz moguls cajole other kids into earning them Kinzcash over dry chicken nuggets and brag about what limited edition busts or beds they’d bought for their darling Webkinz. These magnates monopolized the attention of the whole lunch table. They had discovered a social currency in the number, rarity, and lifestyles of their Webkinz, and they capitalized on their artificial affluence in the only way second-graders knew how. Ruthlessly.

Even my sister and I fell to the wiles of the Webkinz-based social ladder. Every day I perched next to my sister as she navigated through the Webkinz website on our father’s laptop, and we would waste hours playing the distant ancestor to Candy Crush. The game itself held no allure; we played only for the Kinzcash we could earn by winning. My sister was eleven by then. She had little room in her heart for silly stuffed animals, but we didn’t play on Webkinz World to be gamers or caretakers. We played to become tycoons.

Yet many parents were less concerned with this utilitarian attitude towards our toys and more alarmed by how we were “living [our] lives more and more in front of a screen” (qtd. in Tedeschi). Adults didn’t seem to realize that technology was only the means of access; cashing in on Webkinz was the real obsession. One mother fretted that there was “something wrong” with her child addressing her virtual Webkinz like a pet, as if her kid had sold her soul to a machine overlord instead of simply expressed affection for a plaything (qtd. in Mui).

Before Webkinz, I also talked with my toys, and I spoke for them, as well. I gave them histories, improvised conflicts, conducted relationships, orchestrated drama. I played in a world where I was the puppetmaster, and, as a result, it was a world that my peers could never understand or enjoy. Webkinz World was something we could share; therefore, Webkinz became the common language all American children spoke, though not always kindly. I remember hearing one Webkinz World broker threaten to sell all his employer’s rare furniture if she hogged the swings during recess. The Webkinz hoi polloi had already been relegated to the asphalt, where they played hopscotch and hungrily listened to the squeak of the swing set's iron chains.

Like business compatriots at a schmooze fest, we talked up our rarest Webkinz like alma maters as we hung from the monkey bars and hinted at the riches accrued in our accounts while coloring pictures of Christopher Columbus. Because everyone was familiar with and could access Webkinz World through the Internet, Webkinz were the first stuffed animals we could tote around and boast about like proud parents showing off their trophy kids. Is it any wonder that Webkinz captivated a substantial population of socially-emerging eight-year-olds?

Nevertheless, it took a mere twelve months for Webkinz to evolve from insanely popular to unremarkably pedestrian. Competitors for Webkinz popped up like pinkeye as digital components for Bratz, Barbie, and more were released (York). Consequently, many kids started ditching Webkinz to capitalize on the newest trends. By December of 2007, Webkinz were being “rewrapped for Christmas regifting” (McGinn). When the first Webkinz commercial aired in a desperate attempt to rekindle interest, kids were already snatching up Silly Bandz as the new emblem of primary school social prestige. Webkinz slowly became a relic of the halcyon days.

But, we’ve been irreversibly changed by the Venus flytrap of Webkinz World. Webkinz drew us to the Internet like cold germs to a classroom, and we have yet to escape the clutches of global information and social media. With the lure of easy exposure and mutual understanding, Webkinz Pied Piper-ed a whole generation of kids into the tech-heavy life parents were panicking about in 2007; correspondingly, we’ve experienced accelerated social development.

We cozied up to whoever had the most Webkinz and the richest account, hoping to receive handouts to furnish our own virtual homes. When the fad began to wane, we abandoned Webkinz for Silly Bandz, Silly Bandz for Pillow Pets, Pillow Pets for robotic Zhu Zhu Pets and then Zhu Zhu Pets for iPhones, as easily as we divided by one. With the Internet supplying the mode of standardization, the social strata defined by Webkinz developed our ability to instinctively adapt to comprehensive sociocultural changes. We became shrewd, thrifty, and fickle; we used the toys we once cared about to further our ends. Half of us didn’t even know long division, but we understood that struggling toward the upper echelon of society would benefit us. Frankly, I’m not surprised that adults were so insistent on blaming computers and the Internet for our apparent detachment from our peers. Looking at us must have been like staring at their distorted reflections in a funhouse mirror; everything unflattering about the cutthroat side of upward mobility was amplified in our adolescent faces. Denouncing the mirror for the unsightliness of the reflection was the only way to protect themselves from having to accept some of an ugly truth.
However, having exploited Webkinz doesn’t mean we didn’t care for them in some way, for every time I mentioned that I was writing an essay on Webkinz to my classmates, their faces lit up, first in surprise, then in joy.

“Webkinz!” one exclaimed. “I’m so happy you’re writing about this,” another declared. Their memories were worn and faded; there was no talk of Kinzcash earned or rare items collected. Instead, acquaintances reminisced like old confidants. Talking about Webkinz was like talking about a mutual childhood friend; the conversation evolved into an almost unassailable point of connection.

So many of the products we once loved have become outmoded. Chunky old iPhones lie abandoned in kitchen drawers, Pillow Pets gather dust in closets, and who even knows where Zhu Zhu Pets and Silly Bandz have disappeared to? But, we should never underestimate the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia. The top shelf of my sister’s childhood bookcase pays homage not to service but to sentiment. Just as we bought Webkinz to connect with each other in 2007, the fond memories of Webkinz tie our generation together today, even if the stuffed animals themselves fester in old, unpacked boxes.

Works Cited
Bulik, Beth Snyder. “This Frog Speaks Volumes about Word-of-Mouth.” Advertising Age 22 Jan. 2007: 4+. ProQuest Historical Newspapers. Web. 28 Jan. 2016.
Chen, Joie. Kids Crazy for Webkinz. CBS News. CBS Interactive, 19 Sept. 2007. Web. 31 Jan. 2016.
McGinn, Daniel. “Waving Bye to Webkinz?” Newsweek 10 Dec. 2007: 18. ProQuest Historical Newspapers. Web. 28 Jan. 2016.
Mui, Ylan Q. “Teddy Bear, Version 2.0.” The Washington Post. Washington Post, 7 Feb. 2007. Web. 31 Jan. 2016.
Tedeschi, Bob. “Fuzzy Critters with High Prices Offer Lesson in New Concepts.” New York Times [New York] 26 Mar. 2007: n. pag. ProQuest Historical Newspapers. Web. 28 Jan. 2016.
York, Emily Bryson. “The Hottest Thing in Kids Marketing? Imitating Webkinz.” Advertising Age 8 Oct. 2007: 38. ProQuest Historical Newspapers. Web. 28 Jan. 2016.