A Birthday Battle Lost...But Perhaps a War Won

When I picked up my five-year-old from his dad’s house late last night, he was still flying high on sugar frosting and birthday exhilaration. He chattered the entire ride home about all of his presents and his balloons and his cake, and while I was so happy that he enjoyed his birthday with his dad and sister, I couldn’t help but feel sad that I missed it all, and I wished I could have given him what they had.

Before we had even pulled into the driveway, he was asking me how many presents I had waiting for him at home. I gritted my teeth and reminded him that he picked out his birthday present on Sunday during our trip to the aquarium, which incidentally was a $6.99 wind-up submarine. He folded his arms across his chest and kicked my seat, “I don’t even LIKE that submarine anymore! I want DIFFERENT presents. I want something ELSE!”

“Well, I do have one little special present for you in the house. It’s something that means a lot to me, and I’m going to give it to you.”

He leapt out of the van and ran into the house, looking around feverishly for what? I don’t know. I’m not sure what he expected. He just kept asking for his present. I settled him, tucked him and his brother in, and returned to his bedside a few minutes later with a copy of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are.”

My mother, an elementary school librarian (back in the olden days when they WERE librarians and not “media specialists”), used to read it to me and to her students, and it’s one of my all-time favorites. I read it to my boys whenever I can get my hands on a copy, be it at a friend’s home or the bookstore, but I never got around to buying it. But after watching the movie adaptation with him, and recently reading it to him for the millionth time (and him being equally excited about it each and every time), I figured it would be a great addition to our bedtime story collection.

Hiding it behind my back, I gave him my own history of the book…my mom read it to me when I was young, and she read it to her students (giving the monsters special voices and all), and I was so excited to now be able to read it once again to my own little boy at bedtime, especially on a special occasion such as his 5th birthday. I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting, but when I whipped it out from behind my back, he looked thoroughly disappointed, if not a little angry and annoyed.

“Mommy, I don’t even LIKE that book. I don’t want it. I don’t like your present.”

My heart dropped to my feet, and I had to literally tell myself not to cry. Stiffening my back, and taking a deep breath, I said the first thing I could think to say, and I said it as calmly as possible. “You know what, J? I CHOSE to give you a special gift that we could enjoy together. I didn’t HAVE to give you anything. Your words have hurt my heart and my feelings. I’ll leave the book right here on the shelf until I can find someone who might want to read it. Good night.”
And with that, I left the room, sat down on the bed in my den, and collapsed into tears.

It had happened.

My son was one of THOSE. A spoiled child of two divorced parents overcompensating for their own insecurities by showering their children with gifts and two celebrations for every event…two competing birthday parties, two competing Christmases, two competing Fourth of July fireworks displays…

The message he had received was loud and clear: Presents are important, and he/she who gives the most or the best, WINS.

Sadness became anger became frustration became defeat. I would never be able to “compete.” I would always lose the battle of the gifting, and any effort I made to teach the value of memories and the virtue of the thought that goes into giving gifts would always be fruitless. A shiny red soccer ball and brand new baseball glove would always trump a bedtime story or a $6.99 submarine and a memory.

Within 10 minutes of my meltdown, my son tiptoed into the den with the book in his arms, and I did my best to look as if I hadn’t been bawling my everloving eyes out.

“Mommy, I’m very sorry that I hurt your feelings. I really do love this story. Will you please read it with me?”

With that, he climbed into the bed with me, and we read. He pointed out the details in the pictures. He guessed what each monster would sound like. He giggled and smiled and leaned his head against my shoulder. When we were finished, he asked if we could read it again the next night. I said yes.

I tucked him in for the second time, wishing him a happy birthday, and told him that I loved him so very much.

“Mommy, I didn’t mean to hurt your heart. Your present didn’t hurt my heart. I’m sorry.”

“I know, buddy. Thank you. Good night.”

And I left the room again, this time with happy tears shining in my eyes.