The Boss got thirsty while I was ogling the prices on no-nitrates-added hot dogs at Trader Joe's. After she proclaimed that fact for the fifth time, I agreed to find her a drink she could imbibe now and pay for once we got to the register. We settled on a strawberry yogurt smoothie.
"This is good!" she said.
"Is it yummy?" asked a woman who was passing by.
"No. It's strawberry."
I chuckled at the seriousness of The Boss's glee. It was such a small thing, but she was talking it up to every shopper she passed. "I'm drinking strawberry milk!" she told one guy. "My mommy bought me this!" she informed another.
I sure did. And I was happy to.
It reminded me of the conversation I'd had with a friend the day before. She told me how she never thought she'd be the mother who got her son everything he wanted for Christmas. It's not necessary. It doesn't teach the right lessons. She knows this all rationally, but the gleam in his eye when he sees what he wants grabs her with emotion. Here she is now, hurrying the grandparents to tell her what they plan to buy for the kid so she can purchase the rest, ensuring that every wish on the list is taken care of.
To see The Boss's pink yogurt moustache atop lips curling around Thank you, mommy! is to understand why it can be so easy to be sucked into pleasing. But I'm of a more conservative approach when it comes to holiday giving. Even if we could give it all to our daughter, we wouldn't. She's three. She doesn't need that much. Maybe none of us do.
The satisfaction she derives from a 8 ounces of drinkable Yoplait tells me I'm not wrong about this.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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3 comments:
We've already told Jasmine that she's not getting that big screen she asked for. You should've seen the look on her face. We told her once she learns to use the toilet rather than our backyard, we'll consider a TV.
Last year, my oldest daughter asked for a ski boat. A real one. She was 5 years old. Um. Santa brought a remote control one. It worked fine.
Had just that thought today with our 2.5 year old. Let's keep the bar low, I tell my husband. It's only going to escalate. He's happy with a tape measure, a clothes pin, for god's sake.
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