Spoiled rotten?
This weekend preschoolblogger let me in on a little secret: he’s spoiled or well on his way to passing the grateful-kid due date. Admitting this doesn’t fill me with relief. This isn’t one of the stories where now that I’ve named the problem I feel like I can do something about it. It’s more like the way I imagine women must slowly realize their husbands are having an affair. Its a slow, steady subconcious reckoning where you’ve known all along, but just were too tired to deal and then bang, one comment and it all clicks. The worst part is, I know I’m to blame.
Here are my clues: When he walked into his grandmother’s house this weekend the first thing he said was where are the presents?
When I casually agreed that he could get a car at the supermarket, (so he’d be occupied while I hit a few estate sales upstate) he was not timid about picking the 5-pack Matchbox set, even when I said, one car. And because I had an agenda I let him get it.
When I called him from San Francisco last week, when I expected him to ask me when I was coming home and tell me he missed me he said, don’t forget to bring me home a dumpster truck. (We did, and also a trolley).
Thinking about the past month, I can chart where were and what we did, just based on his gifts:
July 4th weekend in Rockport Fatherblogger’s mother bestowed upon him: two you-can-do-no-wrong-love-me-the-most mini fire trucks, a playmoblie powershovel, a playmobile pallette truck. (We did shut him down on the JetBlue plane set, despite our flight being delayed and he stood in front of Hudson News begging can’t I just touch it?” for about an hour.
July 8th: the-we’re-staying in hot Brooklyn this weekend consolation prize was a Thomas the Tank Engine three-car train set (with apples barrels as cargo).
July 16th: Both sets of grandparents came to celebrate baby-brother’s baptism weekend in Massachusetts. They all must have been reconciling their guilty feelings that baby-blogger (for the first time ever) was stealing the show, looking cute as a button and impressing folks with his newfound walking skills at 9 1/2 months because Preschoolblogger made out with a “woody” stationwagon with mini 50s surfboard, a bunch of books, a snow-plow and back-loader. (Babyblogger got a bond and a pair of shoes).
July 21: visiting friends homes. No gifts all weekend. Phew!
July 28th: While we’re in San Francisco, having our first weekend alone since 2001, Nannyblogger buys him a 5 car Matchbox car set (with boats and trailers). This was pre-approved. And, when we return home, we gave him a dumpster he had requested on the phone plus a trolley. (Babyblogger got stacking cups).
Aug 4th: The mom wants to shop booty included: Another 5 car matchbox set and three books, Corduroy, ChickaChickaBoomBoom, and Henry Works, though book, to me, are like veggies on Weight Watchers: you can have as many as you like. (Babyblogger got a fingerpuppet book). And sensing the trend, when my mom wanted to give him yet another set of cars I told her to wait.
But seriously, we have to reign this in. Even though I know why I do it or let it happen. With the grandparents it’s about them feeling entitled to having no rules and wanting an instant happiness guarantee. They don’t see him all the time so if all that stands between a special moment is a plastic snowplow, well you can bet he’s going to get it. But I’m the mother, not the grandma. And even though I’m away all week and also greedy to fasttrack that moment of connection, I’ve got to check my “yes” reflex. He’s already sold on me. I don’t have to buy his attention.
Tonight we had a silly ticklefest on the living room floor and it was so much more satisfying than undoing the back of a truck that’s nearly hermetically sealed to its packaging. So we’ll instill a gift moratorium for a while or at least until next weekend.