gifting angst

I'm thinking about gifts/ giving. (Duh.) What do I give my children for Christmas? What should my children give to their aunties and uncles, grandparents, friends? I'd love to be Martha Stewart and be magically able to craft something lovely with minimal mess that says, "I thought of you enough to craft you this useful, clever, and at the same time darling little votive candle, scented with cloves and orange peel. I want you to know that you are sort of special, but moreso that I have outwitted the whole holiday commercial machine and managed to trick you into thinking that I gave you a 'gift' when it's really just my excess ear wax and an old toilet paper roll that you have taken off my hands."

But, I'm not crafty. Nor am I really all that clever. And it's not really true that it's the thought that counts. Nope. It's the message that the gift sends, or the the thought behind the gift that counts, right? Like when you receive large underwear for Christmas. The thought must be, "I think that your butt must be too big for the underwear you wear these days." (That didn't actually happen to me. Well, it was not underwear.)

My mother has given me some choice gifts that I think speak to the fact that she thinks that I'm a HUGE dork. HUGE.

Item #1: K-mart jeans. Route 66 brand. This happened a few years ago, so the exact pair is, sadly no longer on the website. So, let me add that I did indeed try them on and found that they went above my navel.

Item #2: mother'daughter sleepwear from Lanz of Salzburg. My mother gave this to me when I was 10 days postpartum. She gave my ten-day-old infant a 2t nightgown and me a large one. Even at the time, you could have fit me and a whole preschool class under that nightgown. And, lest yout think that I must have some secret penchant for granny sleepwear, I do not. When I was seven, I did like my "Laura Ingalls" style nightgown that came with a little matching red hat. But, I gave it up LONG, LONG ago.

Item #3: http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif href="http://cgi.ebay.com/Porcelain-Girl-Doll-Hilary-Wimbledon-Collection_W0QQitemZ290186794618QQihZ019QQcategoryZ2394QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem">A porcelain Hilary doll. I can't explain this one. It must have been before the day of the easy shopping gift card rack at the grocery store. I have never collected porcelain dolls. My mom "said" that it was for Hillary Clinton. The doll has nothing to do with the first lady.

Perhaps this is where my gift-buying angst originates. I know first-hand what it's like to be tortured as a gift-recipient. What do you say when you open such gifts? Thanks? Do you have the receipt? FUCK you? (My mother, Momologue Sr. does not have the address or knowledge of this blog, thus this post will remain until the said woman discovers it.) Or, do you just retaliate with equally tacky gifts? I gave away the jeans to Salvation Army. I refused to even take the nightgown home. The rumor is that my mother regifted it to my aunt. I have the porcelain doll in my basement. And, I think that I'm going to give it to Greta this year.

Dear Santa

Greta and Graham sat on Santa last night. Graham smiled. but refused to speak. Greta spoke. She told Santa that she wants a bike. Yes, a bike. This was news to us. Up to this point, she had told me that she was going to ask Santa for fruit snacks and a whole bunch of candy. I think that her three-year-old logic is that she might as well go for the stuff that she knows she won't be getting out of mom and dad. I mentioned to her that even if Santa brought her that, she wouldn't be allowed to eat it all at once, she decided she'd maybe ask for a toy. Santa only brings one toy to our house. I don't like excess stuff (O.K. This is a ridiculous claim because my home is one big vat of excess stuff, but I don't have any room for excess on top of my excess.) The truth? I don't like Santa getting all of the credit.

And, there's a little more truth about the bike. Marc uncovered it last night. My plan was to give Greta and Graham a puppet stage for Christmas. Why? Because I like to play with puppets. In line waiting to sit on Santa, Greta turned to me and said, "Mom. I'm going to ask Santa for something REALLY great. Somthing that you're going to like a lot."

I thought, and asked, "A puppet stage? I really would like that."

Greta looked surprised. I'm realtively certain that she was going to say someting more like chocolate. But, she went with my suggestion. "Sure. I'll ask for a puppet stage."

But, I could see that her heart wasn't in it. I had planted it. I felt guilt that I was somehow stealing her one gift from Santa. So, I siad, "Isn't there anything else?"

"Ummm. No."

Then it came out of my mouth. "What about a bike?"

A bike? Greta has yet to master her tricycle. She's really great at lots of stuff, but she's really bad at riding her trike. And, she doesn't much enjoy it either. She continually drives it into the grass and gets stuck. The other day she tried her friend's big girl bike with training wheels. She kept pedalling backwards, activating the brakes. No good.

It spun out of conrol. A bike became her utmost desire. And, her turn was next on Santa. And he's bringing a bike.

Later I asked Graham what Santa was going to bring for him. "Bike," he said, clear as the day.

Make that two bikes, and no puppet stage.

shadow girls

In my newest parenting read, _Your Four Year Old: Wild and Wonderful_, I read that four is a common time for imaginary friends to surface. (A brief aside to note that there really isn't anything so very wonderful about 'wild' as an adjective to describe a person living in my home.) I chuckled thinking that we had dodged that bullet. I mean, it's sort of cute and all, but mostly creepy to think of my kid talking to imaginary people. Greta now has two imaginary friends, Sara and Clara. This morning, the chased each other, went to swimming lessons with Greta on the living room rug, played hospital with her, and told jokes. One might think that a person talking to a set of imaginary people would hush her voice, perhaps to hide this secret behavior, a la the dude in Harvey. Nope. Greta's voice gets upped twenty or so decibels when she talks to the girls. I tried to join the fun, to no avail. When I tried to tickle and joke with Sara and Clara, I was told that they weren't in the room. Greta said, "Do you know why mom? THey are shadow girls. And, I am a shadow girl, so then I know where they are. But, you are NOT a shadow girl, so you don't know them." I think tomorrow we might talk about how quiet shadows are.

I love squirrels.

This may come as news to some who have known me for many years. I hereby renounce my former hatred of squirrels. True, they are pesky animals who will steal your Christmas bulbs right off the string, rip through your plastic garbage bags at night, eat full muffins in front of you while you scrounge for spare change in your pockets listening to your stomach growl. But, I no longer see this as evidence of evil, merely mischief. I misread the squirrel.

And, this is no spur of the moment decision. For over a week now I have been a squirrel fan . . . ever since I realized that a certain squirrel living in or around my yard has my back.

Greta had a few "bad days" at school a few weeks ago. On one particular day, i recieved news that she had behaved, "wild." Wild? My child? With gentle questioning at night I uncovered the truth of some of her behaviors. I told her a story about a little bear who went to school and got so excited to see some friends that she decided to do some funny stuff that made the teachers frustrated, but made her friends laugh. Then I stopped, and asked, "Hmmm. i just can't think of what Little Bear might have done, Greta. What kind of crazy thing could she have done?" As long as she was pegging it on Little Bear, Greta had no problem being forthcoming about goofball behavior. She replied,"She used the toothbrush to brush her teeth."

I saw where she was going and asked,"Do you mean the toothbrush that the children are supposed to use to wash dirty squirrels with?"

"Yes. And she sat on a puzzle."

"I see. So she did the wrong thing with all of the things in the classroom."

"Yes. And the children laughed."

So, my daughter ratted herself out as the true dirty squirrel of this classroom. I told her that I was sad and disappointed. And, Greta decided that she didn't like school anymore. She refused to go. Then, she had a day when I brought her and she refused to stop crying. She missed her mommy. She couldn't possibly go to school.

Day Three rolled around, and as we were walking out to the car, Greta beckoned me over to see a plump squirrel at the base of a tree in our yard. I got an idea -- no, it was more like the squirrel itself telepathically sent me an idea. "Hi, Sneaky," I said. (Thus far, both of my children and a few confused adults believe that I believe that we are always talking to the SAME squirrel when see a squirrel. I refer to him as Sneaky. When "Sneaky" is with other squirrels, he is with his mother, father, brother Nutty, or friend Shady. Shady is a black squirrel.)

Sneaky played right along and nodded his little squirrel head as he MADE EYE CONTACT with me.

"Sneaky, what's going on?"

Nod nod, click click.

"You're on your way to school? Oh really? You go to the squirrel Montessori right by Greta's? Wow. Do you like it?"

Nod nod.

"You do? That's great. Yeah. Greta loves it too. Sure she can look for you there when she's on the playground."

Stare.

Greta, in a tine voice, joined in," Yes, we go outside."

Nod.

"OK. So you're waiting for your mom to bring you? Well, I'm going to bring Greta there right now. Go ahead and get your mom."

And Sneaky ran half way up the tree, paused, and nodded a goodbye.

"Bye Sneaks. See you at school."

This remarkable swuirrel left no small impression on Greta, who then pegged me with questions concerning squirrel school logistics on the ride there. And, Greta did not cry at school that day and was not a "squirrel" either. There is already a squirrel at Montessori, the brilliant Sneaky. I think that his last name might be Doolittle.