His name is Florent. He's the child playing with his mother on a recent cover of Ombre e Luci. He plays at a specialized toy library in Paris called "The Toy Cupboard." By now, he knows every corner of the place. He started coming when he was just a few months old. Week after week, he's made friends here, learned to play, to share, to laugh with others.
France has many toy libraries. They stock games and toys for children, sometimes for adults too. But "The Toy Cupboard" is different. Founded in Paris in 1975 by a young English woman—the mother of a child with Down syndrome—it arrived at a time when toy libraries were still rare in France, though already common in England and Northern Europe, where they had been created mainly for disabled children and children from disadvantaged backgrounds.
What makes "The Toy Cupboard" distinctive is precisely this: it was founded by parents of disabled children and their families. One of its pioneers put it simply: "Our main purpose can never be just to hand out games and toys. Personal contact and emotional bonds are what matter here."
That contact has always been natural, because parents welcome other parents. Those who have been coming longest, or who have the most experience, help newcomers. They encourage them to choose games that challenge their children but promise real success. And when a child with few resources achieves that success, he gains confidence in himself. His parents go home reassured.
A Toy Library Like No Other
There are no special toys here, though every game has been carefully chosen with disabled children in mind. What's special is the welcome—the atmosphere, easy and unhurried. A disabled child often needs more care and attention, needs to feel at ease. This kind of reception gives him exactly that. Parents sometimes see their own child in a new light here, and are surprised by what he can do. That welcoming feeling opens conversation. Families meet each other; for some, this weekly appointment becomes something they wouldn't miss. For brothers and sisters, it's a chance to see that other families too have a disabled sibling—and to relax knowing they're not alone.
While the children play with the volunteers, parents talk—and the conversations matter. There are discussions, shared stories, exchanged addresses. Some have nowhere else to speak freely, to tell their stories, to break out of isolation, to find solutions to the daily frustrations and bureaucratic slowness. No one judges here. There's real solidarity. You won't find educators, doctors, psychologists, or psychiatrists—only parents of disabled children and friends who come to help.
All this friendship unfolds warmly, over a cup of tea for the parents or juice for the children, with biscuits. The place hums with life, filled with the sound of children at play.
"The Toy Cupboard" was France's first toy library for disabled children, and specialists often visit. Some come for training or professional development, to see what happens here. Others come to meet the mothers, to do research, to write a thesis in nursing or speech therapy. One psychology student offers his time to help with activities.
A Japanese father came to learn how to start a toy library in his own country—something that has already happened in other regions of France.
Television crews and journalists have visited regularly. Word needs to spread. Other families need to know about this place. These spaces matter too much to stay hidden.
Address: "L'armoire à jouets" (APEI de Paris XVe) - 89, rue Mademoiselle - 75015 PARIS
- Marie Claude Chivot, 1994
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