"On the 8th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, 8 maids-a-milking, seven swans-a-swimming, six geese-a-laying, five gold rings. Four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree."
Christmas has, once again, come and gone.
Five days before Christmas was upon us, I had not bought a single gift. I kid you not. Not one single pair of slippers or warm wooley socks. Not one book or gift card or blow ‘em up video game. Nothing. Not. One. Thing.
The principal and I had already made the decision not to exchange gifts this year. While not particularly emotionally satisfying, it seemed like the financially sensible thing to do. Just like every other family we know, money is tight.
The kids, however, were a different story. Santa was still coming for them.
I’ve never been the “buy it on sale in July and stick it in the back of the closet” kind of gal. Truth be told, I hate to shop. Shoes, clothing, groceries, you name it. Shopping is not in my DNA.
I trace it back to my childhood. Every fall, my mother (let’s call her “The Shopper”) would take me (“The Shoppee”) shopping for school clothes. We would wander the floors of Bloomingdales department store looking at woolen jumpers and black patent leather Mary Jane’s and The Shopper would “suggest” things to me.
“This is pretty,” she would say as she held up a dress I would never be caught dead wearing.
“Ugh,” I would groan.
“How about this?” she’d say as she motioned towards perhaps the ugliest pantsuit in the greater New York/New Jersey metropolitan area. “Just try it on.”
“Mom, no!” I would protest.
And this would go on for hours.
Finally, after much sighing and shrugging and grunting and groaning and just as we were about to give up and go home, I’d acquiesce. I’d feel so guilty that I’d agree. I’d put it on. Just to make her happy.
That, was my downfall.
You see, once you are in the dressing room you are up the proverbial creek without a paddle. You have become a quarterback who has wandered out of the pocket. A baseball player, caught in a rundown between second and third with nowhere to go. Your protection is gone. There is no chance for escape.
You are at the shopper’s mercy. Locked in the dressing room with no place to go you fall prey to the shopper’s sense of fashion as outfit upon outfit begins to appear over the top of the dressing room door with the instructions, “try this on, you’ll look great in it” firmly attached.
Even now, some 40 years later, it still sends shivers down my spine.
I’ve bought (and worn) a lot of ugly clothing over the years. Not all of it, I confess, at the behest of my mother. I’ve done my own share of damage as well often buying something just to get it over with.
Seriously. I hate shopping that much.
And I’ve been the recipient of some god-awful things. Shirts and skirts and pants and sweaters that, while potentially lovely on someone else, were, shall we say, things that I would not, should not, be caught dead in.
And yet I have worn them. Willingly.
We do not come from an “exchange” family. It is not in our family vocabulary. When someone gives you something that you do not like, would not wear, have no use for or have seven of already in your closet, you smile and say “thank you” and “isn’t it lovely” and “it’s just what I’ve always wanted”, even though it isn’t.
In our family, when someone gives you a gift, you accept it. Graciously. Like it or not, you do not exchange it for something you would rather have. You would not want to hurt their feelings or make them feel unappreciated, would you?
Guilt is a powerful deterrent.
And I hated it. I wanted to be like all the other kids who came from “exchange” families. Kids who got clothing they liked for Christmas. Clothes they didn’t have to loose 10 lbs to fit in to. Clothes they actually wanted to wear. I secretly wanted to be one of them.
So imagine my struggle when Christmas morning my 18 year old who, just 5 days before didn’t even have a single present, announced that he “didn’t really like the color of the nice sweater that he got for Christmas and could he please exchange it for something else?”
Gulp.
“Huh?” I said, not sure that I had actually heard him correctly.
“Can we take this back and exchange it?” he said again.
Blink.
And that’s when the flashbacks started. The feeling of dread on Christmas morning when I came across what looked like a “clothing” box. The smile that I learned to put on my face when it turned out to be something I knew I would never willingly wear. The guilt that came with not really liking what someone had gone out of their way to give me.
The secret desire I harbored to belong to a family where “exchange” was not a four-letter word.
“Sure,” I said, struggling to hide my feelings of disappointment. “Sure we can.”
In 2010, I want to continue to grow. I want to stay open to the lessons I learn every day, from my family and friends, from the writers at the shelter and my students in the classroom. And most of all, I want to keep learning from two very wise and wonderful young men, my two greatest teachers, my teenage sons who have taught me, among other things, that it’s never too late to be part of an “exchange” family.
Happy New Year.
