I didn’t mean to become a mother. But here we are. It was a Tuesday afternoon in Chiang Mai, a city that smells like grilled pork, eucalyptus, and my unresolved childhood trauma. I was home again—half from here and raised here, now floating through my mom’s house like an Airbnb guest who occasionally weeps in the shower. The plan was to decompress and heal. Instead, I became a plush toy parent with a rapidly growing emotional support army.
It started innocently enough on a stroll through Central Festival mall. I spotted a queue curling around the Pop Mart boutique—“boutique” here meaning a mega toy brand that sells a variety of designer dolls like CryBabies and Labubus. People were sweating, committed. So, I queued. For the vibe, I told myself. It was ironic, I told myself. Twenty-five minutes later, I held a blind box. It was from the “Have a Seat” Labubu collection. 550 baht (roughly $17). I cracked it open like a Kinder Surprise for existentially fragile adults.
Inside was Baba. A sweet, solemn, light brown fur boy Labubu with impossibly kind eyes, and scrumptious little monster feet. Something in my body shifted. I was no longer just a man. I was mother. I held him up like Simba on Pride Rock, except in the food court of a Thai shopping center. The high was immediate. The box was still warm in my hands and I was already opening Instagram.
Baba got his debut post within minutes. The likes came fast, but the DMs even faster. Sean Tay, a former CSM classmate turned trend analyst in Singapore, slid in with a photo that changed my life: Cherry CryBaby. A rare, discontinued set featuring two wailing baby faces dangling like ripe fruit from a cherry stem. As if Damien Hirst took a residency at Hello Kitty HQ. “You need this,” Tay wrote. He wasn’t wrong. I went back for another Labubu later that afternoon, but they were gone before I even made it to the front of the queue. A Condé Nast alum, Liz Minshaw (now Hearst), messaged me from her trip to Hong Kong: “I thought they were silly, but then I was gifted one. Now I have five. People dress them in designer clothes here.”
My friends in London were less amused. They started sending me news links in a sort of soft intervention: a UK retailer suspending Labubu sales after staff were assaulted during a launch frenzy. A man in Malaysia caught on CCTV stuffing Labubus down his shorts (they called him the “blind box bandit”). And my personal favorite—a woman in China who got stuck inside a Pop Mart claw machine trying to rescue a Labubu. One friend texted: “Don’t bring those on the Tube. You will get jumped.” I believe her. London is dry. Labubus are sold out. I fear returning with rare boxes and being followed like I’m carrying Himalayan Birkins. But the demand is real. One friend requested £80 worth. A fashion PR wanted one. Two others DMed. And just like that… I became an informal Labubu mule.
The next day, I gathered my cousins Hai and Phokai and made our way to Pop Mart for restock day (lucky me). I secured a big CryBaby from the Crying Again series for 690 baht ($22), and two mini Powerpuff Girl CryBabies (450 baht a pop, $14)—because I’m nothing if not a shopping-addicted crazy bitch. CryBabies are adorable—oversized heads, plush bodies, big anime tears. But Labubus? They’re on another level: more monstrous, rarer, and the true status symbol of the Pop Mart ecosystem. So of course they were sold out. Again. Apparently, they sold out in the first hour. One staffer told me that people call in advance and queue before opening.
On our way to lunch, we passed a Pop Mart resale store (think: black market), and there it was—Cherry. Shiny, smug, perched in a glass case like tiny hostages. “How much?” I asked. “3,300 baht.” That’s $100. Over triple retail. I messaged Tay. His response: “Treat yourself. Money can be earned back.” He then proceeded to tell me his rare Hide and Seek Labubu was snatched from his Marni tote in Singapore. “This can happen a lot in Southeast Asia right now,” he added. “Be careful.”
I bought the Cherry. Thank god for the little QR code on the box—I scanned it right there in the resale shop to confirm it was legit. Later, I opened the rest: Bubbles and Blossom—blue and pink plush bodies, pigtails, perfect. Then a pink CryBunny with giant cartoon tears and the biggest fuck-off vinyl head I’ve ever seen. I looked at them and felt peace. I could hear Beyoncé singing “Dangerously in Love”: “I am in love with you / You set me free.” And that’s exactly what these dolls had done. They set me free… into capitalist captivity.
Fueled by sushi and a weed gummy, I consignment-hopped across Chiang Mai. By nightfall, I had eight new Labubus. Half from “Have a Seat,” (where…they’re sitting) half from “Big Into Energy” (the collections are kind of arbitrary). Only one was for me. I opened it immediately. Her name? Serenity. Iridescent green plush, green toe nails, and glittering eyes like a forest spirit with an AMEX. I felt euphoria. I posted: “iNeed whatever this feeling is when you open a box INJECTED straight into my veins.”
Yes, I know—this is capitalism at its most manipulative. Cute things for emotionally vulnerable people (me). It’s gross. It’s evil. Unfortunately? I feel exalted.
That’s when model Mia Wells messaged: “Babe… it’s basically gambling.” And she wasn’t wrong. Was I chasing comfort in the form of tiny monster toys? Yes. Was this trauma-based shopping? Also yes. But I looked at them and felt it: pure, uncut serotonin. A regression to childhood. A love that didn’t ask questions.
Also—and let’s be honest—they look incredible on bags. I grew up on Sailor Moon and Ojamajo Doremi—adorable anime full of crying girls with sparkly accessories—so really, this was inevitable. These toys are bag charms with feelings. And the girls in Bangkok, Tokyo, and Hong Kong (and yes, Chiang Mai) already know. I’m just catching up a year too late, like the rest of us in the West.
I told myself I was done. No more boxes. I would enjoy the collection I already had. Focus on work. Head to Bangkok. Maybe explore other shopping urges (Thailand has some truly fab designers, and I have meetings lined up). London is waiting, teeth bared. But I’ll return armed with cuteness and a steely maternal instinct. I will protect my children—even if it means fighting someone in Shoreditch with a duffle bag full of fakes (they call them Lafufus). Because love is blind. Soft-bodied. Vinyl-headed. And going for triple retail. For now… I just need one more box, man. Just one more. I swear.