I have created a monster. 

And it is me. 

So, exactly what insidious infraction have I committed? What crime has happened? 

It is this: Whenever my grandsons Harrison, 5, Beau, 3 and Myles, 1, see me, they expect something. No, not hugs. 

Toys. Gifts. Something fun. 

They have become conditioned to grandpa arriving at their home bearing presents. They have been trained to understand that "Papa Bill" will always have something for them to play with.

“What do you have for us?” 5-year-old Harrison will ask. 

When they come to our Coeur d’Alene home, the first thing they do is head downstairs to the family room, where they are confident new discoveries await.

The other night, we were on a Facetime call with the grandsons in Deer Park and Harrison asked, “Do you have new toys for us?” 

I did and showed him a crate of books, dinosaurs, a Captain America shield and a toy drum set. 

He wasn’t entirely impressed. 

“What else do you have?” 

That was all this time, but there will be more. There must. There is no going back to being regular grandpa. It’s too late. I am forever the grandpa with toys (used, mind you. Most come from St. Vincent de Paul). 

It is quite an array of playthings, far more than they need. But toys are not about need. They never have been.

I introduced them to action figures like Superman, Batman, Flash, Thor and about five versions of The Hulk. I bought them a Hot Wheels plastic carrier with about 60 cars inside. 

They took home a Star Wars case filled with Star Wars characters like a talking Luke Skywalker with his light saber, and a Darth Vader mask that has the voice changer, and Stormtroopers.

As Harrison loves dinosaurs, I must buy every Stegosaurus, Triceratops, Tyrannosaurus rex and Pterodactyl I come across.

Plastic critters and creatures like tigers, lions, bears, giraffes, elephants and zebras now reside in the playroom where the grandsons spend a good deal of their days. Hundreds of small soldiers are scattered around the living room, kitchen, bedrooms and family room. 

Stuffed whales, turtles and sharks were a hit at Christmas.

I have bought them, over my wife’s objections, toy swords and guns. She may be right with her concerns. The last time the boys were over, Myles clocked Harrison over the head with the Thor hammer I gave them. Harrison screamed and Myles quickly threw down his weapon. I took the blame.

As I want to introduce them to music and The Beatles, I have given them drums, guitars, keyboards to put them on the path toward forming their own band. 

I’m not sure my son and his wife appreciate my generosity. The drum sets always seem to end up broken and are sent to the great trash can outside along with other toys the boys are unlikely to miss (Beau is more of a destroyer of toys than his brothers). When I told my son I had yet another box of small plastic soldiers for the kids, he said, “Thanks. It feels really good when I step on them.” 

I don’t know why I keep buying toys for the boys when they already have so many. It’s almost become an obsession. I can't help myself. I can only offer one simple explanation: 

That's what grandpas do.

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Bill Buley is managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].