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My children refer to Easter as Second Christmas. My son’s birthday is in late January, so he often gets a portion of his Christmas gifts on Christmas day, and follow up or associated gifts on his birthday. For example, if he were to get a PlayStation 4 for Christmas, he might get a new controller and game on his birthday. Hypothetically speaking, of course. However, Easter is a time for a whole second round of gifts, or so our children think.
This line of thinking is not their fault, mind you. Children learn from our examples, the precedents we set, the unwritten rules that we as parents establish. We have always overindulged in Easter gift giving, perhaps as compensation for a sub-par Christmas, or perhaps we show our children love through the things we buy them. When holidays roll around, we compensate for the perceived lack of affection or inadequate time spent with them throughout the year. Either way, our children have grown accustomed to getting Easter swag.
Last fall, our son, who was eleven at the time, announced that he believed in neither the Easter Bunny nor the Tooth Fairy. He was convinced that it was, in fact, Dad that was sneaking into his room in the middle of the night and removing the tooth (Ziploc bag and all) and replacing it with an eerily similar Ziploc bag containing a certain amount of money. I may not be the quietest human alive, so there may have been a Tooth Fairy event where, in my haste, I stepped on a Lego, or bruised my shin on a misplaced miniature Ikea table. On one occasion, he woke while I was in his room and stared at me. I asked him if he was okay because I heard him shout, and I came in to check on him because he must have been having a nightmare. What I am saying is, this whole thing might actually be my fault. But, I digress.
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This January, we read an article in the New York Times called “My Year of No Shopping” by Ann Patchett. It was a great read, a challenging idea, and we decided that we would give it a try. For the entirety of 2018, we are only allowed to buy food and necessary life things—gas, oil changes, simple birthday gifts, etc. The goal is to not spend any money on unnecessary things. For example, no new clothes for my wife and me—the eleven-year-old goes through clothes at an alarming rate so this rule does not apply to him—no afternoon lattes, or pizza delivery, or shoes, or trips to the mall. We don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, so Easter was our first big test.
This year, our son gave us no indication of what he wanted for Easter. This was great, as our plan was to only give the children candy, anyway. On Saturday night, however, as we were winding down for bed, he confessed that he was really hoping to get a blue tooth classic Nintendo controller for his iPad. He told us this the night before Easter. Last year, I would have waited until he went to bed and then made a run to GameStop—if they were still open—or Best Buy, or Walmart to fulfill his Easter wish. But this 2018 John did not. I simply kissed him goodnight and went about my work.
Fast forward to Easter morning. Because everyone decides to go to breakfast on Easter Sunday, we decided on Saturday night that our weekly Jelly Ball tournament would need to be put on hold this week, as there was no way we would be able to get or keep a table at our local Village Inn. So, he slept in—a little. When he did emerge from his bedroom, his hair either matted against his head or standing straight out to the side, the realization of the day struck him, and he made a beeline for his basket.
His basket was full of candy; full-sized KitKats, Dove chocolates, the requisite chocolate bunny, etc. He pulled these items out, rather hastily, his giant brown eyes searching the depths of his basket for that gift, the second Christmas bundle to which he had grown accustomed to receiving. No such gift existed; not in this basket. He searched more, his hands moving the paper grass, fingers feeling along the bottom for a hint of something else to come. His twelve-year-old disappointment consumed him in that moment. He glanced up at me, his head still hunched over the now disheveled pile of candy, and our eyes met. For a moment, he let me see his anguish, his unfulfilled desire, his sorrow. Then he caught himself and thanked his mother and me with great hugs. Then we traded candy because my wife still always puts the candy in the wrong baskets. Maybe she does it on purpose, so we will trade, but that’s a different column for a different day.
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I thought I had learned this once when my daughter was young, six, and all she wanted for Christmas that year was a Scooter Samantha, a twelve-inch plastic doll that rode around on a remote-controlled scooter. Nickelodeon had been advertising this toy for months, and, whatever Nickelodeon said that she had to have, she had to have. Scooter Samantha was what she had to have. It was decided that her birth father would get her this doll, which she would play with exactly twice. The problem was, she was with us for Christmas morning, and wouldn’t see him until later that evening.
On Christmas morning, the first Christmas the three of us celebrated together, she opened present after present, discarding Barbies and clothes and stuffed animals and boots and toys until no unopened gifts remained. Then came the realization that no Scooter Samantha was waiting for her under the tree. Christmas was ruined. She had been taught that Christmas was the day we get everything we want, or at least the thing we want the most. What she wanted the most was Scooter Samantha. We have the meltdown on video, and I intend to show it to her on her wedding day. Or perhaps the first time her child has a meltdown because they don’t get something they want.
What I learned that Christmas so long ago, and clearly had forgotten, and then learned again this Easter morning, is that our children learn to expect what we teach them to expect. We are their first educators, their first exposure to developing wants and needs. We have the responsibility of setting the boundaries for gift giving. It is our job to teach humility and gratitude, to distinguish between want and excess. When our daughter was young, I wanted her to like me so much, that I bought her everything she desired. And she learned. With our son, I feel guilty, like so many parents I know, that I don’t spend enough time with him. So, I compensate by buying him whatever he wants. And he learned. Perhaps my daughter loved me because I simply showed her what a loving, nurturing father should look like. Maybe my investment in my son shouldn’t be monetary. Perhaps my energy should be focused on spending more time with him, playing Monster Hunter, or Legos, or Jelly Ball. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I won’t forget this time.
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Photo credit: Getty Images