A Christmas-y Gesture

There are many people in my life that are not easy to shop for. I'm one of them myself and I know it.  I'm great at shopping for some close family and friends, totally lost and stressing up to the last minute for others, which is why I hold tight to the idea that it's the thought that counts. In this time of gifts and giving, it is always important to remember that it truly is the spirit in which a gift is given that matters most.

After my second daughter was born, my oldest girl, Lizzie, and I began doing “school” not only as a risk-free trial to decide whether or not I actually could homeschool my children, but also as a way to make sure I made time for my Liz now that there was another baby in the house. Each day at 1:00 p.m. I put the baby down for her nap, maybe caught a few winks myself and then at 2:00 I rose and went out to begin school with my oldest. Like many parents beginning the homeschooling journey, I was fearful that I lacked the patience required to teach. Two things helped me: 1. remembering all the “professional” teachers that I had growing-up who had not the patience God gave a gnat, and 2. Patience is like a muscle that grows stronger the more you exercise it. And so my children and I began what would ultimately be over a decade of learning and growing together. Our school time at the pre-school age mainly consisted of sitting together in a chair and reading stories and poems, learning to cut lines, the alphabet and the names of shapes. It was a time I treasure to this day as the happiest of my life.

It was an ordinary spring day, far from holidays or birthdays. The windows were open letting in the mild breeze and the baby was dozing while Liz and I read Mother Goose and learned to draw a cat using ovals and triangles. We finished our studies and I glanced at the clock on the oven. It was 2:45 and that meant the mail had arrived. It was a joy of ours to check what postal surprises awaited each day. Hand in hand, we walked out the screen door and down the gravel driveway to the rusty mailbox that had stood in front of this house all my life and possibly all my dad's life too since this was his childhood home and the very one I had waited in front of each day to catch the school bus. I now had the comforting pleasure of raising my children in this placed filled with so many fond memories. Liz's tiny hand curled inside mine as we strolled to the mailbox. We sang a song as we did everyday about bears going over mountains, trains coming around mountains, or kitchens containing mysterious banjo strummers. When we reached the mailbox there was a perplexing puffy package inside. An avid online shopper, I received mail-order trinkets almost daily but I was not expecting anything this size. I dropped my daughter's hand to use both of mine in extracting the package from its receptacle, gave it a bounce or two trying to guess what might be inside, then turned it over to read the return address. It was from Mr. Bleu's oldest sister.

“What is it, mama?” Lizzie asked.

“It's something from Aunt Katie.” I replied, eyes still scanning the package for clues as to its contents. “C'mon, let's go open it,” I said.

Distracted by the package puzzle we made a songless B-line back to the house.  I took it to the kitchen counter and Lizzie stood next to me on tip toe peering over the edge. I sliced through the paper envelope with scissors. Pulling out the tissue wrapped contents, I threw the package away. There was a card taped to it which I set aside. Tearing open the tissue I saw two dolls inside. One was a darling black and white plush cat wearing a green pom-pommed snow hat, a pink terrycloth ski vest, a purple floral mini-skirt,  and daisy flip flops.  It was an odd combination of seasonal garments, as though the cat were experiencing winter on its top half and summer on the bottom. The other “doll” was a horror dredged from the deepest vilest nightmares of all childhoods throughout all human history, brewed in bile and vitriol, and then conglomerated into a freakish jester mocking our distress. Its hair was an eye-searing hue of neon orange that God rejected using in nature. Its black eyebrows had a sinister arch and its cold hollow eyes craved death. Its snout was topped with a blood red sphere and underneath its vicious smiled curled around two protrusions which were probably puckered fabric but looked like fangs. It was a ruffled polyester nightmare.

“Dear Lord Jesus,” I whispered.

“Mama, are you praying?” Lizzie asked.

Turning to her sweet innocent face, I whispered, “Yes, baby," then muttered, "but I don't think it will help.”

“What's in the package?” She asked.

Wanting to reply, “dolls,” but feeling that term misleading, I reached for the card and opened it hoping for some guidance.

Hey, here are some Christmas presents for the girls (It was April) that I saw at the farmer's market this weekend. They're completely handmade (by Satan?). I thought Elsie would like the kitty and I thought of Lizzie for the clown. Hope they like them. Merry Christmas!
Love,

Katie

There were no answers here. I folded the card up and slipped it back into the envelop. I could feel Lizzie's eyes boring into the side of my head as she waited to see what was in the box. She crouched down, ready to explode with curiosity and whispered, “Mamaaaaah.” I turned to face her. “What is iiiiit?” she asked. Maybe I was being silly. Just because I never liked clowns didn't mean my children wouldn't. I feigned a smile and tried to add cheeriness to my voice when I announced, “Aunt Katie has sent you girls some dolls for Christmas, isn't that nice?” Lizzie's nose wrinkled and she cocked a tiny eyebrow. “Is it Christmas time?” “No, dear, not even close,” I replied in the same cheeriness. “But, it's the thought that counts.”

Mr. Bleu's family never celebrated Christmas when he was growing up. While most of his siblings chose to celebrate as adults with families of their own, the holiday always seemed a bit lost in translation to them all, including Mr. Bleu. They missed out on the childhood wonder and now seemed unable to grasp the point of it all. I half expected to enter one of their homes on December 24^th and see their faces aglow as they displayed a fichus decorated with kitchen scraps hung from bobby pins. “Yes,” I would remark, “that is 'decorated greenery,' but I'm not quite sure it's a Christmas tree.” The same held true for gift giving. Every year his brother instructed his children to pick out toys they no longer wanted to give as gifts and each year my children unwrapped games with missing cards and booger crusted action figures with missing limbs. His youngest sister gave gifts one time and one time only, evidently assuming this was forever checked off her list. His oldest sister, usually waited to see what I sent to her children each year then went out and bought the exact same thing in a different color and sent it back to my kids. Out of curiosity, I didn't send a gift one year, and evidently lost for ideas, neither did she.

I bent down to Liz with both dolls in my hands. She saw the cat doll first and gasped with delight. “This one's for Elsie.” Her face fell. I extended the clown “doll” toward her. “And this one's for you.” Her disappointment turned to revulsion, lips curling back over her parted teeth, brow wrinkling into infinity. “Noooooo!” she said. “I don't want that doll!” She turned a frantic glance to the kitty, “I want that one. Elsie's a baby; she won't know.” I sympathized but was determined that politeness and gratitude should win the day. “Now, Lizzie. Auntie Katie sent this to you as a gift. She picked it out for you.” I stretched my hand toward her again with the hideous poppet. Arms frozen at her sides, she stared at it for a few moments. Then looked up at me with tears forming in her eyes. “Does Auntie Katie hate me?” Her lip quivered. I looked at the doll and muttered, “Well, based on the evidence at hand I can see why you would think so.” “What!?” She squeaked.  “Oh, no, sweetie. Aunt Katie doesn't hate you. I'm sure there's a very good reason why she sent this doll...  Maybe she's started drinking.” “Drinking what?” She asked. Elsie's coo echoed into the kitchen and I knew that her nap time was over. “Never mind,” I said, “let's go show Elsie the new dolls and the two of you can play.” With Liz still unwilling to hold the clown, I bundled both dolls under one arm and grabbed Lizzie's hand.

Elsie was sitting up in bed, patiently waiting for me to come and get her. She didn't walk until she was nearly two years old, not because she couldn't, but because she knew that if she waited long enough her father or I would walk by. Once we walked by, she'd extend her arms and be lifted and carried where ever she wanted to go. Why bother using her own legs like a chump when a ride would be along sooner or later? And so, after her naps, she waited to be taken to the living room or the playroom. Seeing us enter, she reached out her arms, but instead of picking her up, Lizzie and I both plunked down on the bed. I put both dolls down in front of her and said, “look what Auntie Katie sent you,” hoping Elsie would prefer the clown and this matter would be settled. She looked at the clown for a mere second before pouncing on the kitty and clutching it to her chest in territorial affection. “My!” she said. “Look, Elsie, don't you want this pretty clown doll,” Lizzie asked using one finger to push the doll closer to her. Elsie, squeezed the kitty tighter and shook her head. “This my.” she said firmly and the argument was ended. Elsie refused to be parted from her doll and Lizzie refused to go near hers. I tried to continue on with my day, but the clown remained a thorn digging into my side. “I'm being silly,” I thought, “and I've just passed my distaste for this doll on to my kids. They're sensing it and reacting. It's not really that ugly... and terrifying.” Pause. “What if it hears me?”

In the evening, Mr. Bleu arrived home from work. Lizzie rushed to greet him with a hug.  Elsie sat in her spot, kitty still in hand, and reached up for him as he walked by to say her hellos. He picked her up and asked, “Whatcha got here?” Elsie held it out for him to inspect. “That's very nice,” he said, and turned to ask me where it came from.  He was greeted with the clown doll in his face. He flinched and spat out, “What the hell is that?!” “These dolls are from your sister and this is the one she sent Lizzie.” “Why?!” He gasped. “Maybe she started drinking!” Lizzie chimed in from across the room. I withdrew the doll and turned it toward me to look it over. “I guess she thought it would be a nice Christmas gift.” “It's April,” he replied, “and that's terrifying. Just throw it away.” Now I was beginning to pity the poor doll. Just like it wanted me to. “I can't throw it away,” I replied, straightening a malicious ruffle, “it was a gift.”

No one slept easy that night. At 2:00 a.m. after Lizzie had a nightmare (she wasn't the only one) I stuffed the doll into an opaque black plastic sack and tied it closed. For several days a dark cloud hung over our home. We tried to carry on with our pleasant routine but everywhere we went and everything we did, we knew the clown was watching.

On Saturday I loaded the children and the sack into our gray Scion shoebox and drove to my brother's house. He wasn't home but my sister-in-law invited us in for a chat and a playdate. After a few minutes of banter, I produced the black bag. Explaining that it was a gift that didn't suit my children's taste and with as light-hearted an appearance as possible, I suggested that my nephew Tomas, the same age as Lizzie, might like this doll. I untied the handles and excised the clown from its bag. My sister-in-law, a Texas native with only two volumes, embarrass-you-in-public-loud or wake-the-dead, cried out upon seeing the doll.

“Eeewww! Throw that away!”

It was her wake-the-dead tone.

“I can't. It was a gift.”

“It's sooo ugly!”

“So, you don't think Tomas will want it?” I asked with fading hopefulness. She laughed, then snatched the doll from my hands and said, “I dunno. Let's see.” She strode over to my nephew, shoved the doll in his face and said, “Hey, Tomas! Look what Aunt Leandra brought you!” His shriek was the sound of childhood innocence shattered forever.  My sister-in-law cackled, “Oh yeah, he loves it!” Tomas ran and his mother pursued, clown doll in hand, until cornered, he collapsed on the floor in quivering sobs. She stood up and hurled the doll at me. I caught it before it hit me in the face. “Aw, I think you're his favorite aunt now,” she laughed then scooped him up and cooed “don't worry, I won't let mean ol' aunt Leandra scare you anymore.” Deciding it was time to go, I loaded both my girls into the car and began the 30 mile drive home in silence. On the way we passed our local charity shop where my grandmother and her octogenarian sister volunteered in their spare time. Seeing neither of their cars in the parking lot, I turned around and drove back to the donation dock. I jumped out of the car, bag in hand, chucked it onto a stack of National Geographics from 1978 and tomato sauce stained Tupperware and dashed back to my car. Speeding away I glanced in my rear view and thought I saw the clown doll, head popped out of its bag and glaring at me.

Each morning for the next several weeks I awoke half expecting to find the doll in bed next to me or sitting in a chair waiting for me as I emerged from my bedroom, but it did not reappear. Elsie became so attached to her kitty that she could not go to sleep without it each night, Lizzie so traumatized by her clown that she could not sleep because of it for several months, and I pricked by my conscience about discarding a gift and simultaneously destroying the childhood of whatever impoverished local urchin who happened upon it at the charity shop, didn't sleep well either, but life did, in due time, return to normal. Spring gave way to summer and autumn and the holidays eventually rolled around again. Mr. Bleu's family had their annual get-together, a strange cacophony of attempts to “do Christmas," and I tried to concoct a lie in case Kate should ask about the clown.  In the end, I knew only the truth would do. Kate approached us and asked if we liked the dolls. Determined to remain honest, I replied, “Oh, we did get the gifts you sent and thank you so much. That was very thoughtful of you.” I then turned the conversation to her new job and satisfied with my answer, the dolls didn't come up again.

The following day at my own family's holiday feast, I passed through the kitchen looking for some sweet finale to my meal.  After locating a runny pecan pie, I overheard my grandmother telling my mom about a donation that caused quite a stir at the charity shop some months back. Apparently someone had left the most hideous doll on the heap and it had been passed around and discussed at length before finally being thrown in the trash.  My mother nodded, awareness crinkling the corners of her eyes. “What kind of doll was it?” She asked. “Oh, it was this awful clown. Who on earth would donate that?!” My grandmother demanded.  Who indeed. Mom darted her eyes to where I stood, mouth filled with drippy pie, spoon still vertically protruding, eyes wide with fear. I slid the spoon from my mouth, shifted the pie to my cheek and put in, “Maybe it was a gift and someone didn't feel good about throwing it away,” then spun on my heel and sprinted out of the kitchen.

Of all the Christmases (and random days in April) when my children received gifts, the image of that clown doll is still seared into their brains, but so is the valuable lesson that came with it.  People who love us may not always know the difference between what we like and what will fuel our nightmares, but it truly is the thought that counts and we must always be grateful that we are in the giver's thoughts and thankful that others have loved us enough to send a small token of that affection, (even as we are poised over a trash can, gruesome token held aloft, ready to be discarded).