I don’t think we were spoiled in any way, but the only thing I can think of is a pair of cowboy boots when I was about eight or ten. My mother knew I would outgrow them much too quickly, but I really wanted them. Her solution was to take me to the shoe department and actually try some on. They were tight, hard to put on and take off, and not very comfortable to walk in. I decided I no longer wanted cowboy boots, and I have never worn any even as an adult.
The only TV show we couldn’t watch (1970s) was M * A *S * H, because my dad didn’t want us to grow up thinking there was anything funny or entertaining about war. I can honestly say I’ve never watched an episode, either, although I do understand many of the cultural references.
My sibs and I also asked for, at various times, Jarts (lawn darts), a Ouija board, and Rice-A-Roni, which was heavily advertised at the time, and we never had those either. One of the first things I bought at the grocery store when I moved out was indeed Rice-A-Roni, and found out why my mother never made it. UGH! As for Jarts, my dad was a firefighter and knew how dangerous those things were, and as for Ouija boards, they didn’t want us messing around with the occult, something I understand now.
Working in the antique mall industry over the past few years, I’ve seen Jarts or their knock-offs for sale more than once, and kindly informed the owners that it’s illegal to sell them at retail, although it’s not illegal to own them or sell them privately.
Jarts was played all the time, along with horseshoe throwing. The parents wouldn’t let us have our own Jarts set because grandma and grandpa had two of them. One at the cabin, one at home. We had very strong rules about being out of the way of the jart being thrown. My dad would catch a specific bro no moving away far enough and he would be made to leave the game and go inside where he could watch from a window.
My great-uncle was world champion at horseshoe throwing. We were all encouraged to play once we were old enough/strong enough.
A camel. I was a pretty weird kid and I loved the idea of riding it around our large backyard. I thought it would look cool too, lol. But my parents were meanies and said no. 
I got to watch Hogan’s Heroes, but only because it was on. My older brother used to always sigh and say “Yeah…the German’s in WWII weren’t fools [but their leaders were often evil].” He had reservations about listening to Wagner because of his anti-Semitism.
The only thing I remember being forbidden to do was play PC war games. There weren’t that many back in the early 80s, at least, compared to today. So, I played WWII simulations using paper maps / cardboard chips representing the units involved / rules / dice. Such games were really popular then.
Wow. How similar. Our single mother, despite being the type whose tastes were steeped in the nostalgia for her youth, was just like that in regards to Christmas trees. It also always had to be a short, squat, Scotch Pine, So dull! Despite being youngsters, we liked the those big multicolored bulbs from an earlier era. That and a lot of garland, tinsel, and a smattering of ornaments that looked like a dog’s breakfast, all festooning a proper proportioned Spruce or Balsam tree.
Another battle between my mother and me. By the early 70s, having longer hair was common on boys, and most had. My mother always fought to make me have hair like boys did in the late 50s in her HS yearbook. I had large-ish years for my age then ( though they thankfully lay flat against my head ) and wanted them to be at least partially covered by my hair, but I had to constantly fight my mother’s nostalgia-trips back to her HS years.
Same with the clothes. Always pushing slacks instead of jeans, oxford shoes instead of chukka boots/work boots. Thankfully I had an ally in one of my aunts ( her younger, much more “hip” sister ) that shilled for me by pointing out to my mother that her pushing her old-fashioned tastes on me is making my life a living hell amongst my peers.
The Disneyland talk reminded me that we didn’t take vacations. We didn’t go to vacation places or have a cabin someplace – that was for rich people. Twice in my life we took excruciating car trips from California to Ohio to visit my mom’s family, and I didn’t find out for years afterward that her siblings had helped pay for it.
But. We went to Disneyland every year. We lived in the west Los Angeles area, so it was a short day trip – although anticipation always made it feel like a very loooooong journey. Disneyland opened when I was three, and we went that year. Not on opening day, but not long after. We could never buy any stuff or eat at the restaurants. They used to have picnic benches outside the park, and we always ate a sack lunch before going in. My sister just reminded me that we begged for the mouse ear hats when we were kids, but my mom would never buy them. When I was in my teens, I went with friends and got myself a hat. It cost like a dollar!
All I wanted for Christmas was my two front teeth…and a monkey.
Every month I was cruelly tempted by the Darling Monkey ad in Boy’s Life magazine and comic books.
I pleaded passionately for my parents to buy me this cute monkey. I explained to them how I would teach the little fella to do chores, wear a hat and do all kinds of tricks. But, did my draconian parents get me a monkey? Nooooo!
I thought they were bananas for not wanting a monkey.
Of course, what I really wanted was a chimpanzee. Chimps are even bigger and better than monkeys. What could possibly go wrong with a 7yo kid having a chimp for a pet?!?
A cat. Pretty much the only thing I really wanted that I didn’t get. Finally got one as an adult, and he’s everything I ever dreamed having a cat would be. My parents have a cat now, too. I like to give them a hard time about it.
You should have asked for a dog…and a monkey. You could have explained to your parents that they could make money racing the dog with the monkey jockey. It wouldn’t be the first time this was done.
I wanted to go skiing.
Everybody at school, it seemed, would spend winter weekends on the ski slopes. Monday morning talk in the schoolyard centered around who had tackled what hill at what ski place, and who had succeeded or wiped out in doing so. The kid with a broken leg from skiing was revered, as he told about the accident. And the more lift ticket tow tags you had hanging from the zipper on your parka, the cooler you were.
I had no tags hanging from the zipper on my parka. I could not participate in the Monday morning talks. I wanted to go skiing so badly, just to fit in.
But, “It’s too expensive,” my mother said.
It took me some years, but I finally figured out that “it’s too expensive” was my Mom’s way of saying, “I don’t want to, so we’re not going to do it.”
The Chimpanzee is the Cadillac of monkeys.
Not just any Cadillac, chimps are the ‘75 Coupe DeVille of the monkey world.
The same damn thing happened to me. I wanted an Easy Bake because you could make real cakes and cookies with it, which was nothing short of miraculous to Small Me. But an Easy Bake was a girl’s toy, I was told by every grown person I mentioned it to. Boys couldn’t have them. I tried over and over to explain to them that it wasn’t about it being a girl toy, it was about baking real cakes, but couldn’t get through to them.
All the time I was a kid I wanted a pet monkey (and still do) but the 'rents wouldn’t hear of it.
I also wasn’t allowed to order anything from ads in comic books or magazines because “it’s a waste of money and a waste of time.”
We lived just a mere ten miles from the drive-in movie theatre, but didn’t go to the movies --I only got to go once a year, maybe, and it was always some stupid war movie my dad chose, never anything I wanted to see. “I wouldn’t walk across the road to see that movie” was what they told me when I asked if we could go see a movie I wanted to watch.
And I wanted to grow my hair long but they kept it humiliatingly short until I was 18.
I feel your pain.
When I was a kid, my father cut my hair and he cut it short. If I was “lucky” I got a flattop, but usually I got a crew cut. This was tré uncool for a kid in the long-hair ‘60s.
Eventually, Dad made my 9 year older brother my barber. I thought, alrighty, now I’m gonna get a stylish haircut at long last. No more boot camp cuts for this guy!
But noooo, that didn’t happen. Bro cut my hair even shorter than Dad…and uneven to boot. (I’m still plotting my revenge).
When I got older and took control of my hair, I let it grow and flow in the wind, like the mane of a mighty lion! 
And now, with the ravages of age, my hair more resembles the coat of a mangy dog. 
I wanted a Nintendo Entertainment System, with Super Mario Bros. 3, like my best friend across the street had, but my parents wouldn’t allow it. I had to settle for a Sega Master System. No one ever comes to your house to play the Master System.
I also wanted a Super Soaker and got a firm no-- no guns of any kind.
hey you lucked out … the sms was soo much better than the nes …
We used to make “water wienies” (aka “wombat” for some unknown reason) by tying off the proximal end of an extended length of Bunsen burner tubing, filling it with water under pressure, and spraying from the terminal end by releasing finger grip. I could have put out a 5-alarm fire with that baby!
Maybe I’ll make one to use on my cats when they do something bad (which is pretty much always). My dribbling plastic water pistol no longer has an effect on those rascals.
Add a bit of vinegar to the water pistol. Cats hate the smell. The scent will dissipate fairly quickly and plain white vinegar does not stain.