Something strange happens at my house at night when the lights are out and my daughter is sleeping soundly in her crib: Her toys reproduce.

It's very quiet and very subtle — you wouldn't even know it was happening until one day there are suddenly five baby dolls where once there was only one. Mr. Potato Head's bag of accessories is bulging with more than 100 pieces when I know it only came with 10, and the 26-piece alphabet puzzle somehow has 35 pieces

Mystifying.

Even more mysterious is that despite the growing number of toys in my house, there is not a single toy that has all of its pieces. Mr. Potato Head, for example, has 12 pairs of eyes ranging from jovial to angry, but no lips. The alphabet puzzle, for all its many pieces, has 5 Z's, but no A.

One day I know I'm going to stumble upon a hidden land of missing toy pieces and unmatched socks. I'll just swim around in plastic toys and socks laughing, finally laying to rest life's biggest mystery.

Until then, I have no explanation besides reproduction.

Perhaps it's all part of what my cousin calls the "toy wars." She explained this concept to me at my daughter's second birthday.

Apparently, the goal of a toy war is to see which parent can give the other parent more obnoxious toys with ridiculous amounts of microscopic pieces that will end up in your child's nose or your own underwear.

The more pieces a toy has that could reproduce and take over your house, the better.

And it's not just about the pieces, either. It's also about finding the toy that can make the most obnoxious sounds.

Even better, find one that sings a song that will get stuck in your head until you are humming, "Shapes are in my cookie jar — triangle, heart and star" in the middle of an intimate moment with your spouse.

I must admit, I have participated in the toy wars.

I once gave a box of instruments to my niece. I didn't have children at the time so I didn't understand the ramifications of my gift. Now I know that giving a child a box of tambourines, maracas and castanets is akin to flipping the bird to the parents.

And everyone knows the big daddy of obnoxious toys — the ballistic missile of any good toy war: Tickle Me Elmo.

This red-haired abomination features a laugh that could only have been created by years of scientific research and focus groups to find the absolute most irritating sound on the earth.

And yet, parents fork out $60 to add Elmo to their child's collection, or to hand it over with a smile to a parent they dislike.