All Wrapped Up

My parents didn’t believe in toys. They were not ones for playing games, though my mother did love a good round of cribbage and the New York Times crossword puzzles. For his part, my father played blackjack and the stock market with the best of them.

The first gifts I remember were books from well meaning relatives sure the eight-year-old me would love a copy of Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. Or, on the other side of the family, a history of Burlesque or Vaudeville. Sometimes we’d get clothes, which I appreciated but never felt good in—not at all the fault of the gifter.

We left the top floor of a two family on a quiet block to move into a tenth floor apartment on a busy thoroughfare where I didn’t know anyone. My father gave up his normal dad job to become a playwright. I didn’t know, nor care what that meant. I wanted to make friends and shove my oddball self into what we used to call a “crew.” I was too shy to take the lead in these attempts, but I had a keen eye and an endless ear and was happy to serve as witness.

My parents weren’t gift givers, not Hanukkah nor Christmas. That was for other kids, they said. My mother gave a birthday gift with a grudgingly full heart. I don’t think my father ever thought about such things. It wasn’t like they expected to get them either, or cared when they did. Once, I saved up $10 to buy Dad a pen set to put on his desk. He brushed the gift and me aside.

The girls in my new building had a lot of money. They went to prep schools, downtown, which I’d never considered an actual part of Brooklyn, but they swore was more than a cheaper version of Manhattan. My new friends had the latest video games, and when my mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I answered honestly. An Atari 800 game system.

My father said I would have to earn such a thing, though he wasn’t clear on how. At the time it was thought video games would rot your brain, unlike the ounces of pot he was smoking. I wanted to be like the other kids, not the one with the stay at home dad and the mother who was constantly frustrated.

It was expensive, they both told me. I’d do anything, I said. Clean my room. Get good grades. Ok, my mother said reluctantly, and took me to Consumers, a precursor to the delights of big box stores, where you bought things from a catalog in the showroom and they came rolling in on a conveyor belt from someplace magic in the back. 

My mother said I’d have to wait until next week, my actual birthday to open it. I untangled the coiled, knotted phone wire and stretched it into the bathroom so I could tell all my new friends.

When my father saw the box, he argued. In retrospect I imagine this was one of many fights that had nothing to do with me, or my behavior, but was had in my name. In the morning my mother returned it to the conveyor belt, where Consumers swallowed it whole again. We never spoke of it. But I did rail at the injustice. For years. Apparently, I’m still not over it.

Gift giving, like being nice, sounds like a great idea, but can be fraught in the execution. I’d like to show you I love you, but by running errands or listening to your stories, by dancing in the rain with you or crying in a bathroom. When you give me a date and an occasion, I’m not that great. I want to make people happy, but I can’t handle pressure. Or wrapping paper.

I have been known to send things out of the blue from time to time, just because I know you’ll like it. And isn’t that what gift giving should be? I like and think about you enough to send or offer something I’ve found. You’re welcome.

My friend sent me a mascara from a line of cosmetics I adored instantly. An incredible find! Because I thought they’d be useful, I sent her a package of stick-on things strong enough to hold her cellphone in her car. This is the best gifting transaction I can think of. It wasn’t either of our birthdays, we just wanted to share.

The follow up gets to me too. Don’t you love it? Won’t you prove it to me? Come on, give me a fashion show. Look, I am a brave woman with an amazing constitution, but I can’t give you that kind of satisfaction. I’m terrible at thank you notes, too. And while we’re at it, if you don’t like what I’ve given you, keep it to yourself. I can only be responsible for taking the shot, you work the rebound.

There are gifts that I’ve loved, many from my husband. They haven’t all been hits though. He bought me a beautiful, plush towel with a monogram and the number 50 embroidered on it to mark the occasion. Because we should all be reminded how old we are as we towel off. Right? I got over it quickly. It was a nice towel.

I try to give my boys things, and I do, but they haven’t taken to gifts well either, always claiming there is nothing extra they need. I wonder where they get that from? Also, they are home from school, asleep in their rooms as I write. That is a gift that never loses its magic.

Some presents are thoughtful, kind and regifted. I appreciate these. Others of them are assignments. Call this person. They will do this for you. Have this framed. Integrate this into your very soul, because this gift is more about me than you. Yes, there will be a test. 

And yet, there is no greater joy than watching someone I love, appreciate something I knew they would. Especially when it’s more than a pretty box and includes a slice of myself. I want my presents to bring joy and sparkle. I appreciate your appreciation, but in the end, I just hope you like me. And acknowledge my wisdom, of course. After all, everyone seems so sure it’s the thought that counts.

In the spirit of giving this holiday season, I want your packages to be beautifully presented and exactly what you’ve been longing for. Most of all though, aren’t you glad I’m not on your list?