The Gifts That Keep on Giving
Hola, Wild Boy friends, family, and followers! Welcome back to another glimpse into our life here in La Casa de Testosterone. I know, I know, I haven't been nearly as punctual as I have in months past as of late. There's a million reasons, the biggest one I'd probably cite being that this is that hybrid season where we overlap between school basketball, rec league basketball and baseball. Yes, baseball in February - we actually start with our clinic in January. But it's California, and apparently God has decided we don't need winter this year, so it worked. Reasons being what they may, I'm back - at least for a brief check in so you don't start wondering if I've finally been overthrown in the man house. Not yet, although not for lack of the little Menendez mini's trying their hardest.
The beauty of basketball season is that we get to start hanging out with our buddy and the boy's die hard babysitter. She is one of the only non-family member that gets tasked with care of the little hell raisers. She's a retired parole agent, which makes her amply capable of keeping up with the wild boys. Never do I worry about coming in after work to find her bound and gagged, knocked unconscious, putting out fires or dialing 911. She's hard core, and she loves her some wild boys. She forms a quintessential part of my cheering squad during all our sport seasons. But we have a big chunk of time between the end of soccer and the beginning of basketball where we don't get to see her, which means that when we get reunited it's time to exchange Christmas presents!
And this, my friends, is what I'd like to talk about. Picking the perfect gift. Recently I saw a printout of a birthday invitation for a one year old which was several paragraphs long banning about everything fantastic to a child. The gist of it was "we, as highly enlightened, eco-friendly parents don't want our child to have any toys because they won't be educational enough, any clothes because you, the hapless gift giver, will not pick the organic cotton no dye $40 onesie that benefits the drilling of fresh water wells in sub-Saharan Africa, or any food products because let's face it, you'll do that wrong too. Just buy us one of the books on this pre-picked list."
What. The. Hell????
Believe me, I get the idea of trying to stem the flow of gifts into your household. Trying to helicopter mom control the chaos that will unfold with the inevitable receipt at Christmas of Hungry Hungry Hippos and the 8 billion decibels it will be played at, never mind the marbles you'll find in the middle of the night when you slip and nearly die on them. But in this one area (oh let's be real, in SO many areas), I have foregone control and just watched and kept score as the gifts rolled in.
When you embrace the "sure, whatever you think they'll like is wonderful" gift receiving mentality it is implied that it is in fact, reciprocal. I am NOT giving you cart blanche permission to send things into my house without fully intending to send back something at least one level more, be it more noisy, more sticky, more dangerous...I'm keeping score and you are getting it back. It's like the grown up version of hitting your sibling. You know you shouldn't. You know there is no way they aren't going to hit you back, probably harder. And yet you are COMPELLED to poke the bear and start shit. It's a fools move, every time, I promise. Some of the most notable gifts in holidays past:
1) The Animal Train. Self propelled, with numerous spinning animals, this little beauty rode through my kitchen singing a song that could set a deaf monk's teeth on edge. And it did it FOREVER. (Full disclosure, I bought this ugly little bastard for my nephew as a toddler and my lovely sister bought the same thing as soon as humanly possible to give to my kids. I poked that bear. Still awful.) I was giddy with excitement when that one finally died.
2) A giant construction set. It was practically the size of a bathroom. It had multiple levels, cranes, moving vehicles, the whole nine yards. Once two parents spend half a day swearing, threatening to knife one another and weeping openly in construction of this bad boy it is in NO way collapsible, and a quarter of the living room will hence forth be "the construction site."
3) Inflatable sumo suits. The irony is that these were bought as a gag gift since the kids were getting hurt so much. After the wild boys knocked out both parents through hyperventilation blowing these up they ran full speed through the house to collide into one another, repeatedly, slamming onto the ground before giggling and going again. The further irony is that less then 20 minutes after me saying they were playing too rough and had to take them off Gavin fell on a cleat while jumping on his bed and broke his back. No joke.
4) The play dough dog poop set. Well, I don't know that it specifically says dog. Its a mold that creates a perfect poop shape with the brown play dough it comes with. I didn't see it get opened, and the poor dog was seriously traumatized after I came at her screaming like a banshee when I found a turd in my shoe. I'm positive she's contemplating the real deal now.
5) And finally, our most recent acquisition: the toilet game. Shaped like a toilet, with realistic toilet sounds, you spin to see how many times you have to flush. Eventually, the flush triggers a stream of water from the toilet into the unlucky player's face. It's every boy mom's worst nightmare, because we spend 80% of every day telling our kids to keep the streams of liquid IN the toilet, and dreading the fluid that comes pouring OUT of the toilet when they "accidentally" flush four matchbox cars followed by the six army men sent on recon to try to recover said cars before mom and dad realize the ceiling is dripping. I don't even know HOW to dole out any revenge on our babysitter for this one, except maybe to drop the boys off after splitting a dozen donuts and a pint of Mt. Dew on a rainy day...
All of these toys have been ADORED by the wild boys. There's no way to be upset about them when you hear wild, raucous laughter after someone takes a fake urine shot to the face. But it doesn't mean I'm not plotting some revenge...
Until next time, happy gifting from La Casa!
The beauty of basketball season is that we get to start hanging out with our buddy and the boy's die hard babysitter. She is one of the only non-family member that gets tasked with care of the little hell raisers. She's a retired parole agent, which makes her amply capable of keeping up with the wild boys. Never do I worry about coming in after work to find her bound and gagged, knocked unconscious, putting out fires or dialing 911. She's hard core, and she loves her some wild boys. She forms a quintessential part of my cheering squad during all our sport seasons. But we have a big chunk of time between the end of soccer and the beginning of basketball where we don't get to see her, which means that when we get reunited it's time to exchange Christmas presents!
And this, my friends, is what I'd like to talk about. Picking the perfect gift. Recently I saw a printout of a birthday invitation for a one year old which was several paragraphs long banning about everything fantastic to a child. The gist of it was "we, as highly enlightened, eco-friendly parents don't want our child to have any toys because they won't be educational enough, any clothes because you, the hapless gift giver, will not pick the organic cotton no dye $40 onesie that benefits the drilling of fresh water wells in sub-Saharan Africa, or any food products because let's face it, you'll do that wrong too. Just buy us one of the books on this pre-picked list."
What. The. Hell????
Believe me, I get the idea of trying to stem the flow of gifts into your household. Trying to helicopter mom control the chaos that will unfold with the inevitable receipt at Christmas of Hungry Hungry Hippos and the 8 billion decibels it will be played at, never mind the marbles you'll find in the middle of the night when you slip and nearly die on them. But in this one area (oh let's be real, in SO many areas), I have foregone control and just watched and kept score as the gifts rolled in.
When you embrace the "sure, whatever you think they'll like is wonderful" gift receiving mentality it is implied that it is in fact, reciprocal. I am NOT giving you cart blanche permission to send things into my house without fully intending to send back something at least one level more, be it more noisy, more sticky, more dangerous...I'm keeping score and you are getting it back. It's like the grown up version of hitting your sibling. You know you shouldn't. You know there is no way they aren't going to hit you back, probably harder. And yet you are COMPELLED to poke the bear and start shit. It's a fools move, every time, I promise. Some of the most notable gifts in holidays past:
1) The Animal Train. Self propelled, with numerous spinning animals, this little beauty rode through my kitchen singing a song that could set a deaf monk's teeth on edge. And it did it FOREVER. (Full disclosure, I bought this ugly little bastard for my nephew as a toddler and my lovely sister bought the same thing as soon as humanly possible to give to my kids. I poked that bear. Still awful.) I was giddy with excitement when that one finally died.
2) A giant construction set. It was practically the size of a bathroom. It had multiple levels, cranes, moving vehicles, the whole nine yards. Once two parents spend half a day swearing, threatening to knife one another and weeping openly in construction of this bad boy it is in NO way collapsible, and a quarter of the living room will hence forth be "the construction site."
3) Inflatable sumo suits. The irony is that these were bought as a gag gift since the kids were getting hurt so much. After the wild boys knocked out both parents through hyperventilation blowing these up they ran full speed through the house to collide into one another, repeatedly, slamming onto the ground before giggling and going again. The further irony is that less then 20 minutes after me saying they were playing too rough and had to take them off Gavin fell on a cleat while jumping on his bed and broke his back. No joke.
4) The play dough dog poop set. Well, I don't know that it specifically says dog. Its a mold that creates a perfect poop shape with the brown play dough it comes with. I didn't see it get opened, and the poor dog was seriously traumatized after I came at her screaming like a banshee when I found a turd in my shoe. I'm positive she's contemplating the real deal now.
5) And finally, our most recent acquisition: the toilet game. Shaped like a toilet, with realistic toilet sounds, you spin to see how many times you have to flush. Eventually, the flush triggers a stream of water from the toilet into the unlucky player's face. It's every boy mom's worst nightmare, because we spend 80% of every day telling our kids to keep the streams of liquid IN the toilet, and dreading the fluid that comes pouring OUT of the toilet when they "accidentally" flush four matchbox cars followed by the six army men sent on recon to try to recover said cars before mom and dad realize the ceiling is dripping. I don't even know HOW to dole out any revenge on our babysitter for this one, except maybe to drop the boys off after splitting a dozen donuts and a pint of Mt. Dew on a rainy day...
All of these toys have been ADORED by the wild boys. There's no way to be upset about them when you hear wild, raucous laughter after someone takes a fake urine shot to the face. But it doesn't mean I'm not plotting some revenge...
Until next time, happy gifting from La Casa!
Comments
Post a Comment