Twas the night before Munchkin’s birthday
And all over the house
Not a creature was stirring
Except for me, who was screaming, “****!!!!!”
I had committed the ultimate motherly sin and forgotten to buy my own son a birthday present.
Screeeeeccccch! That’s the sound of the rewind button. Because I really have to explain myself.
First off, let me point out that Munchkin’s birthday comes but three days after Christmas. Not enough of an excuse to forget to buy him a prez, but still, have sympathy for me. It ain’t easy, in the fog that is a family Christmas, to be super-organized.
Second, let me say that I bear the burden of buying Christmas presents and birthday presents for my kids on behalf of my parents and my grandmother, who put money in my bank account (and very kind that is, thank you) then ask me to do the shopping.
Consequently, because of aforementioned fog and that extra shopping, there are lists. And more lists. And updated lists. And scrawled-out bits and notes on the side. It’s quite a mess, but it’s needed. I learned to make the lists on Munchkin’s first birthday, that I could not function without allocating presents and checking them off when bought. Because here is what I buy every year:
a Santa present for Munchkin
a Santa present for Sweetpea
a mum and dad Christmas present for Munchkin
a mum and dad Christmas present for Sweetpea
a Gran and Grandad Christmas present for Munchkin
a Gran and Grandad Christmas present for Sweetpea
a Great-Gran Christmas present for Munchkin
a Great-Gran Christmas present for Sweetpea
a mum and dad birthday present for Munchkin
a Gran and Grandad birthday present for Munchkin
a Great-Gran birthday present for Munchkin
That’s eleven presents to buy and keep track of, eleven presents to wrap, eleven presents to label, eleven presents to hide. It drives me nuts. Which is why it came to be the evening before Munchkin’s birthday and I realized, to my tearful and hand-wringing horror, that I had failed to put the ‘mum and dad birthday present for Munchkin’ on the list. We had nothing.
I checked my watch: 4.45pm. Hubby and the kids were on their way back from somewhere. He had taken them out to get them out of my hair whilst I tried to work. I realized there was always Target along the road, open till 9 or even later, and that all was not lost. But shopping at Target would break the resolution I had made (and thus far successfully kept) to shop local this year.
So I called Kid’s Center, the best toy shop in the universe, and local, to see when they closed. They told me 5.30pm. Quick call to Hubby: “You have to get back here NOW. I have a crisis.” After a quick pow-wow behind closed doors – kids banished and told to watch some T.V. and for once reluctant to do so, because they knew something was up – we went for the Kid’s Center option.
I floored it, speeded most of the way there, cursed every red light I hit along the way, and arrived, sweating, to a store with four employees, not one other customer, and seventeen minutes to spare. “I need a birthday present for a six-year-old boy!” I cried. “Into science, the human body, cars, trucks, LEGO.” The beauty of Kid’s Center, and indeed any local store, is that you get actual human help, and not just a limp finger pointed in the direction of a toy aisle.
They were marvelous, finding me some cool construction straw thingies with plastic bits that hold them together, that you can make a million shapes out of. And I played the indulgent auntie card because no way was I going to admit the boy was my son.
But then I did. It was their fault. They made me warm to them. I let the cat out of the bag in a confession that was almost tearful. “I can’t believe I forgot. I’m the worst mother ever,” I said. The young lady serving me nodded in pretend empathy and said, “You were thinking of everyone else. That’ s OK.”
“I know!” I wailed. “That’s right! I was!!!” I think they were glad to get me out of there.
On all other fronts, let it be said that I could have won birthday-mother prizes. I could have collected trophies and filled a room with them. I did our traditional thing of taking down the Christmas tree ornaments and turning it into a Birthday Tree, with hanging treasures and goodies, and birthday presents underneath (my friend K, mother of another Dec 28th baby, gets full credit for that idea – thank you K!). And I and Sweetpea made a peppermint cheesecake from scratch. I tidied and prepared, arranged cards and emailed grandparents to make sure they knew what they had ‘given’ him, so that when they called the next day it was all good. I got to bed at 1.30am.
The next day we hit the snow an hour away up a nearby mountain. I bruised my back sledding, but I didn’t care. We only half-made snow angels because the snow was so icy. Munchkin slammed into a kid’s sled and cried, but after two minutes he didn’t care either. The hot chocolate we had was the creamiest, dreamiest ever, and the fudge from the store up the mountain was delish. So was the Mexican food back in Tucson, and the home-made cheesecake.
One day I might tell him I almost forgot. But not now. He adores me (and I him, needless to say). Let it be that way for some time to come. And let me learn a lesson: to be more careful with my lists. Like Santa, to make it and check it not once but twice.
Merry Christmas everyone, and Happy New Year when it comes.