I've driven past the old brick building on North Lake Avenue a dozen times before I finally pulled in. Izzi's Gym doesn't look like much from the street — just another storefront wedged between residential blocks where Whittier bleeds into the north end. But step inside and you realize this isn't a toy store at all. It's a living room that happens to sell wooden trains and felted animals and books with actual bindings.
The owner — Izzi herself — knows half the kids by name. I watched a toddler drag his mom straight to the back corner where the dress-up clothes live, zero hesitation, like he'd mapped the route in his sleep. There's a play kitchen older kids ignore and younger ones treat like sacred ground. A bin of Legos someone's three-year-old has definitely put in their mouth. It's not precious. It's used.
What I love is how unapologetically analog it all is. No flashing lights. No licensed characters screaming from the shelves. Just wood and wool and the kind of toys that make you work for the fun — blocks that require balance, puzzles that don't talk back, dolls without backstories. The kind of stuff my niece ignores for approximately eight seconds before getting completely absorbed.
It's small, though. Really small. If you're coming with a double stroller and two other families beat you there, you're doing an awkward shuffle near the door. And the prices — well, they're not Target prices. You're paying for the curation, the lack of plastic nonsense, the fact that Izzi probably touched every item on that shelf.
But here's the thing: parents keep coming back. I overheard a mom tell her friend it's the only place her kid asks to visit by name. Not the mall. Not Scheels. Izzi's. That's not marketing. That's just what happens when a store feels like it belongs to the neighborhood — because it does.
— Grace
I've driven past the old brick building on North Lake Avenue a dozen times before I finally pulled in.