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Payback time arrives with explosion of gifts
(by Christine Thome - December 16, 2009)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
Payback time arrives with explosion of gifts
This Christmas it's payback time.
John and I are the oldest of our siblings, and our children are considerably older than most of their cousins. For years, while our children were young and John's siblings were single and carefree, one of his sisters in particular would take it upon herself to be the "cool aunt" and purchase our children the noisiest, loudest, most obnoxious toys she could find every Christmas.
One year, it was electric guitars. Another, drum sets. Yet another was the year of a million teeny, tiny Legos and Barbie accessories that managed to embed themselves in our feet and plug up my vacuum cleaner.
The only joy John and I took in these gifts was reminding her that paybacks will be hell. And now that her very active boys are ages 3 and 6, we plan to return the favor.
Her boys are crazy about "Star Wars," and because I tend to wipe unpleasant experiences from my memory, I thought a new pair of "Star Wars" pajamas would be wonderful gifts for the boys this year.
"Are you crazy?" my son said. "You might as well just get them underwear and socks! Kids don't want clothes for Christmas. Do you want to be the worst aunt in the history of the world?"
"Of course not," I said. "How about some 'Star Wars' books or games?"
"They will kick you in the shins on Christmas Day if you do that," he said with a look of disgust. "Kids want toys for Christmas, Mom. Nothing but toys."
"Wait, do you need gift ideas for my sister's boys? The sister who bought our kids all the large, noisy, obnoxious presents every year?" John asked.
"Yep," I said, suddenly bombarded with terrifying flashbacks of Christmases past.
"Then this is the year for paybacks," he grinned sinisterly. "We are going to the store right now and buying those boys anything that shoots, explodes, implodes and destroys. Cost is no object."
It had been a few years since I had the need to shop at a large, commercial toy store, but even in that short period of time, things have changed dramatically.
The store is now set up like a junior high dance -- girls to the left and boys to the right. To the left are beautiful dolls and lots of pink; to the right are weapons of mass destruction.
Overwhelmed by the sheer size of the store and the amount of choices, I asked a manager for help.
"Are you looking for nurturing toys or toys to drive the parents crazy?" he asked.
"It's payback time this Christmas for my sister," John explained with a sinister grin.
"Then you want to go all the way to the back, where we keep everything with the words 'Buggers,' 'Bombs' and 'Bad Guys' in the name of the toys."
Walking to the back of the store, I couldn't help but notice the learning toys in the area marked, "Future Valedictorians," and the puzzles and books in an area marked, "Future CEOs." We knew we were in the right spot when we saw the area marked, "Future Terrorists."
"This is awesome!" John said, holding up something that looked like a futuristic gun, complete with a red laser and plastic balls that shoot with considerable force and a big "Kaboom!"
"Wonderful, they can blind their subjects before shooting them in the head and permanently disabling them," I said, absolutely appalled at some of the toys.
"Exactly!" he cried.
"We didn't have anything like this," he said, picking up another exploding toy. "The only fun toys we had as kids were lawn darts, BB guns and a magnifying glass to set ants on fire."
For the next hour, John gazed at the toy weapons of mass destruction. Sighs of desire would escape through his mouth as he envisioned himself hiding behind a sofa, ready to blast anything, animal or human, that came within his sights.
"Are we buying for Uncle Johnny or for your nephews?" I reminded John as he looked at me with a sadness that longed for his youth.
"Don't worry, honey," I consoled him. "I'm sure they'll invite you over for a play date."
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