The Gift That Keeps On Giving
Once Brendan discovers I’ve written this I may want to go into witness protection but my fancy was just a little too tickled not to. No, not in a dirty way. You see, his parents generously paid us a visit last week and, despite the tension that always seems to develop right in the base of my skull when they show up (potentially a contributing factor to my ultimate decision to move to Australia) I did manage to find some amusement.
They’re a delightful pair really. His mother, for example, upon hearing a term we took to using for a short time after I had a particularly nasty sinus infection to mean “copious amounts of…” spent an entire visit referring to “snotloads of…” I found it a mite less shocking than he did, probably thanks to my unique mother. His father is an ex-banking, ex-dairy-farming local councilor who maintains his disinterest in becoming mayor despite the flash of pride one sees in his eyes at the suggestion. I actually suspect that if it wasn’t for the in-laws effect I’d quite enjoy having them around.
I don’t think anything could decrease my amusement in their gifts though. You see, I’m one of those strange people who has strict rules regarding the giving of gifts. A gift from me must be one of two things, either something I know the recipient truly, deeply wants or something which I feel makes an observation regarding the recipient. That’s why I don’t much hold with Secret Santa. My one experience with it had me trying to come up with the ultimate less-than-$5 gift for a person about whom all I knew was that he was dating another co-worker. I knew he liked her, but he already had one. Plan foiled. I ended up copping out, after all, everyone likes chocolate.
To a person who analyzes things to death the way I do gifts can say a lot. They can say how much the giver really knows about me, how much thought they felt like putting into the gift (gift certificates say far more than the greeting card they usually come in) and, occasionally, the givers opinion of me. Brendan’s bi-annual gift of a new shirt tells me that his parents think that his wardrobe isn’t extensive enough. I’m not inclined to disagree, but that’s a whole different kettle of fish.
What, though, do you suppose the bi-annual toiletries suggest they think of me?
Tagged: Parental Trauma.