Topic: Holidays
Topic: Birthday Parties
Topic: Have you ever seen candy cigarettes?
Topic: Birthday Parties
I guess investment bankers and CEOs don’t have to stick to a holiday budget, but the rest of us do. Mine can get stretched pretty thin, what with my family celebrating both Christmas and Chanukah. But this year, for myself and for many of my showbiz colleagues, that budget’s going to be so thin it’ll be darned near transparent, because my union, the Writers Guild of America, has been out on strike since November 1. Strikes, downsizing, layoffs, increased expenses, illness, Dad’s hitherto secret online gambling addiction -- these are all situations that can make the holiday season a lot less jolly. But, having survived the five-month long WGA strike of 1988 and weathered numerous seasons of freelancing when staff jobs weren’t forthcoming for either my scribe hubby or myself, I’ve become something of an expert on how to tell kids that Santa (and Judah Macabbee, the spirit of Chanukah) won’t be dropping quite as many gifts down the old chimney as he did last year.
When your kids are infants and toddlers you don’t need to explain anything if the presents are sparse, because they aren’t aware that they’re getting anything anyway. Does a six-month-old throw a fit because she got a Stack and Nest Blocks set instead of the talking Dora Explorer doll? Of course not; anything she can hold in her hand and drool on is a perfect gift. From the toddler stage to around the age of three, they can’t compare one season to another because they can’t remember how many gifts they got last year. I mean, they don’t know how to count yet, so how could they possibly run a tally? From age four to eight, you can blame it on Santa. “The elves went on strike so Santa’s workshop couldn’t make as many toys as they usually do.” “Two of Santa’s reindeer are lame, so the other six won’t be able to handle quite so full a sleigh.” Or the classic, “Mrs. Claus threatened to divorce Santa unless he took her to the islands for the holidays.”
Once a kid is eight or nine or ten and learns that Santa is the literal beard fronting for the Bank of Mom and Dad, you have to come clean -- to an extent. Assuming your child is used to earning an allowance and understands the basic formula of Work = Money = Gifts, you might say this: “Daddy and I had some unforeseen expenses this year. We’re sorry there won’t be as many presents as last year, but we’re still going to have a great holiday and lots of fun together.” What you don’t say is, “I got laid off in September and God only knows when I’ll find another job.” The last thing you want your child to feel is fear that you’re headed for the poorhouse. Every kid who’s seen one of the five million film adaptations of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol is scared to death of being poor; remember the scene where the Ghost of Christmas Future gives Scrooge a glimpse of where exactly Tiny Tim will be next year (hint: it won’t be sitting by the fire) if the old tightwad doesn’t give Bob Cratchit a raise? Don’t share your financial worries with your kids; they already have enough to worry about nowadays!
If your holiday budget won’t accommodate that pricey gift your deserving child’s been hoping for and you’re fortunate enough to have well-heeled parents or siblings who just love to shower your child with presents, tell them your situation in advance and see if perhaps they’d like to go in together on a particular gift. Grandparents who live far away, or siblings who don’t yet have kids of their own, are always stuck for gift ideas for kids anyway; if you give them a suggestion on something they can afford jointly, they’re usually grateful for the suggestion.
And what if your economic “downturn” is sure to be reversed in the coming months, but not in enough time to buy a particular item for the holidays? One thing I did a few years ago was to issue my kids a Santa IOU: Abby wanted Seven for All Mankind jeans (they cost more than my first house did) and Marc wanted a new, state-of-the-art fishing rod. I couldn’t afford these gifts in December, but I knew that both my husband and I had deals in the works that were sure to be concluded by February or March, and we would have the money then. So, I typed the IOUs in fancy script on the computer, printed them out on heavy stock, then boxed and gift-wrapped them. The kids had something pretty to open, and a promise from Mom and Dad that their hearts’ desire would be granted in due time.
Holidays can be hard, especially when we’re in a tight spot financially, but please don’t think that your kids absolutely have to have a sleigh-full of pricey presents ’neath the tree or they’ll be traumatized for life. They won’t, believe me. What they’ll appreciate far more than just about anything is having a variety of little gifts; a beautiful tree, big or small, that they helped to decorate; and the knowledge that their parents love them. So quit worrying, and happy holidays!
Topic: Birthday Parties
Each year when August arrives, I am reminded of the many parties we threw for my daughter Abby, whose birthday is the twelfth of the month. The first one was for her second birthday, and the guest list, like the guests, was on the small side: flame-haired Max, age 13 months, and pink-cheeked Shea, 17 months. Neither Abby nor Shea was a stranger to sweets even at that tender age, but Max had never been exposed to sugar in any form. He stared warily at the tiny forkful of chocolate cake his mother held to his lips, then, hesitantly, took it. He chewed, swallowed, and seemed to study it for a few seconds. Then, fast as lightning, he reached over, plunged both hands into the cake, and, like a frenzied madman, shoved fistfuls of the stuff into his yawning yap. (Okay, so I was a sugar pusher. “Go on, kid, try it. The first slice is free.”) I don’t believe Max’s parents have forgiven me to this day. On the other hand, I’ve never quite forgiven Max for ruining Abby’s beautiful cake, either.
It took me years to learn the lesson of that experience, and I’ll share it with you now: when it comes to a kid’s birthday party, all bets are off! That means things are going to get dirty. Something is bound to get broken. Much if not all of your house will look like the entire population of Uzbekistan held a goat festival in it. Anything that can happen probably will happen. What you have to do, Mom, is to let it all roll off your back. There is no such thing as a perfect kid’s birthday (or a perfect kid, for that matter) -- at least, not what you, an adult, think of as perfect. Kids typically do not care whether the balloons match the plastic forks or the Gummi bears are in crystal bowls. The only thing you can count on at a kid’s birthday party is that there’ll be a mess to deal with. Accept it. I spent a significant portion of my kids’ celebrations cleaning up after them and their guests when I should’ve been sitting back and enjoying the party. Let the kids make their mess; let them stick their hands in the cake (well, until they’re four, and then it’s “you sit down and wait for a plate and fork, Mister”); let them spill a little root beer on the carpet. (Hint: next time, serve lemonade or 7-Up; they dry clear.)
I do, however, offer a tip to those who can spare the extra money, assuming there’s any left after buying all the food, decorations, party favors, balloons, and gifts: if you simply can’t not grab your Dustbuster when little Stacey drops her plateful of Cheetohs all over the bathroom floor then steps on them in her haste to get the heck outta there and blame it on some other, hapless kid, then bite the bullet and hire help for the party. Perhaps you have a trusted babysitter, or are lucky enough to have a housekeeper or cleaning woman who wouldn’t mind picking up a few extra bucks on a Saturday afternoon. Or, maybe there’s a teenage girl on your street who’s no stranger to picking up after a kid brother, and would be thrilled to make $25 to help out at your party for a couple hours. Don’t forget, just because you’re the hostess doesn’t mean that you can’t have fun at your child’s birthday celebration. Your little one turns seven only once.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy decorations for Abby’s twentieth birthday party. Even though she now shares an apartment with my son while they’re in college, the place isn’t big enough to hold the 20 best-friends-forever with whom she’d like to make merry. So, Mom and Dad offered to host the birthday bash here, where there’s a backyard, a pool, and PVC patio furniture that can be hosed down--oh, and we get to pay for everything. (At least now we don’t have to provide goodie bags.)
Let the good times roll!
Topic: Have you ever seen candy cigarettes?
Nowadays they’re nearly impossible to find outside of those “retro-candy” websites. They were popular for decades, sold in packs that resembled such distinctive grown-up brands as Marlboros, Chesterfields, and Pall Malls. Back in the day, when most everyone smoked, the idea of promoting the habit among impressionable young children, no matter in how seemingly innocuous a form, was acceptable. Which raises the question, to what extent did indulging in candy cigarettes in childhood lead to real smoking later on in adolescence and adulthood?
Well, I don’t know the answer to that. I smoked for over 20 years, but I’m not sure whether I started as a result of eating candy cigarettes and chewing on bubble gum cigars in childhood or because of that cute, Camel-smokin’ boy I started dating freshman week at college and wanted so desperately to impress. But here’s another question for you: what other modern-day asinine grownup indulgence is openly marketed and promoted in an “acceptable” kid version? Answer: tattoos.
Starting when my daughter Abby was five years old, the goodie bags we handed out at every birthday party included sheets of fake, temporary tattoos: the Little Mermaid, My Little Pony, the Simpsons--virtually every kid “brand” out there spawned a line of tats. A couple of drops of water, a little pressure, and presto! A chubby arm would remain colorful until the next bath or two -- which, in the case of male children, could be the entire winter. Perfectly innocent, you say, right? After all, what harm is there in a little vegetable dye, right? Read on, sister mother.
Within a month of turning 18, Abby went out and got herself two tattoos. And I’m not talking temporary or henna. No, these were the real deal: a red rose inside one wrist and on the back of her neck a Chinese ideogram which, she insisted, meant “Truth, Love, Beauty.” Not only do tattoos bring the risk of infection, but they are permanent -- unless, of course, you want to make some dermatologist or plastic surgeon even richer than he or she already is by shelling out major bucks for laser removal. Several months later, when my Chinese cousin-in-law came to visit from San Francisco, I yanked down the back of Abby’s shirt collar and begged Zheng Shi to translate. Yes, she confirmed that the tattoo actually did say “Turth, Love, Beauty,” and not “Eat at Wo Fat’s” or “Mao Zedong Blows,” or something far worse, but that hardly makes me any happier about it. Or about the other three illustrations decorating my daughter’s flesh.
Okay, I know lots of people have tattoos today, including many moms of the Alterna variety. Hey, to each her own. These days, tats are just as likely to be seen on college profs and investment bankers as they are on the sailors and mom fetishists who sported them on hairy chest or bicep when I was a kid. But, ask yourself this: is it possible that one of the reasons why so many of today’s young people are getting tattoos is because of all those temporary tats we handed out so blithely to them when they were kids?
Just a thought. And I’d love to hear yours.
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