[title subtitle=”WORDS: Stoney Stamper
IMAGES: courtesy Stoney and April Stamper”][/title]
I’m a good gift buyer. I’m not bragging, or anything. I’m just saying, I’m an amazing gift buyer. Maybe the best ever. Maybe that’s bragging a little. But I pay close attention to the things the recipient of my gift wants, and then I plan and shop for the best deal, well ahead of the special day. It’s a wonderful, thoughtful process.
Ok. I’m going to be honest with you. That whole first paragraph was a big, fat, lie. I don’t do any of that stuff. I wouldn’t say I’m the worst gift giver in the world, but I definitely leave a lot to be desired. I may have an idea of what someone may like, but I don’t plan it out early, and I’m just as likely to pay double what something’s worth, than shop early and get a good deal.
Of course, when it’s the day before your wife’s birthday, and you’ve got nothing, worries about cost go straight out the window. Your only focus is having a good gift for her birthday. Four hundred dollars for a purse? Sold! I can’t speak for all men, but I’d gladly pay $400 to stay out of the doghouse. But maybe that’s just me.
My wife’s birthday is February 11. Three days before Valentine’s Day. Which is cruel and unusual punishment. To add insult to injury, I’ve got three daughters, and the two older ones, Abby and Emma, want to give mom their own presents.
I’d rather get in a bare knuckles bar brawl with Mike Tyson, circa 1985, than to take the girls to the mall. But I’d put it off as long as I could. So, on the day before April’s birthday, as much as it pained me to do it, I pick the girls up from school and with the bravery and courage of a kamikaze pilot, head to the mall.
Excitement oozes from their pores as we pull into the parking lot. There is non-stop giggling and talking. “Dad is taking us to the mall! This is so much fun! We’re going to spend all his money!”
As we walk in from the parking lot, I lay down the ground rules. “Ok, girls. Stay together. Do NOT run off by yourselves. We aren’t here to shop for you. Let’s find some presents your mom will like, buy them, and get out of here as quickly as possible. We all clear? Ok. Ready. Break!”
Before we even get into the main section of the mall where all the stores are, I can tell my ground rules are going to be very hard to enforce. Emma takes off at a near run. “EMMA! GET BACK HERE!” I scream, as she heads directly into a fancy jewelry store. I have nightmarish visions of broken glass and thousands of dollars of damage, as my energetic little blonde-haired tornado whirls around from one display to the next. I rush in and escort her out.
“Emma, I said DON’T run off!” She is completely unfazed by my instructions and heads off in another direction. Abby, although older and calmer, looks like a racehorse just before the gates open. I gather them together in front of the food court to reiterate my ground rules and make a plan.
Unfortunately, I choose to do this right in front of Cinnabon®. As I’m talking, I notice Emma is having a hard time paying attention. “Emma, are you listening?” I ask.
She replies, “Can I pleeease have an Oreo® chocolate chip diabetic energy explosion?” (Ok, that’s not really what she calls it, but it’s something like that.)
My kneejerk reaction is a resounding “NO!” But then they team up on me. Abby joins in. “Pretty please, can we have one?”
The flutter of long eyelashes and adorable smiles gets the better of me. To put on a smidge of authority, I say, “Girls, you don’t need one of those. They’re big and expensive, and we’re going to eat dinner when we’re done here.” But it’s all for nothing. They know they’re getting the 2,000 calorie milkshake before the words have even left my mouth.
So, I’ve spent $14 already, and we’ve yet to actually do any shopping. Time to get down to business. “Where do we need to go first, girls?” I ask.
“Let’s go into Journeys®!” they emphatically reply.
I say, “Girls, Journeys® only has girls clothes. Your Mom is turning thirty-three years old tomorrow. I doubt there’s anything in there she’ll want.” But, as usual, my opinion is ignored, and we go into Journeys®. They both ‘oohhh’ and ‘aahhh’ over the mountain of cute outfits.
“Girls, remember. WE ARE SHOPPING FOR YOUR MOTHER!” They giggle at each other, and continue looking at clothes — for themselves.
I am being taken advantage of. “GIRLS! LETS GO!” I say.
To which Abby replies, “But Stoney, they’ve got some really good deals! Can we please keep looking?” I realize the only way out of here is with brute force. I round them up and march them out of there, both of them looking back over their shoulders.
“Hey, there’s The Sunglass Hut®. There’s a pair of Coach® sunglasses your mom’s been wanting. Let’s go look over there.” The girls are as excited as if I had just asked them to go do their math homework. I find the ones I’m pretty sure April wants, so I ask Abby for her opinion. She is thirteen and pretty fashionable. She is also kind of hormonal, and pouting because I just embarrassed her by dragging her out of Journeys®.
I ask again, “What do you think of these?” as I hold up the sunglasses. She responds with a less than ecstatic, “I dunno.”
I say, “What do you mean? These are cool; I think she’ll like them. I’m pretty sure these are the ones she wants.”
Abby says “I don’t like them. I don’t think she will like them.”
I was pretty confident about the glasses. Now, my confidence is wavering. “You don’t think she will like them?” I am deflated. I thought I had done so well.
Abby shrugs, “I’m going to go in Claire’s®.” Emma screams, “YES!” and away they go.
Well what now? I don’t really want to go the gift card route, but I also don’t want to spend a couple hundred bucks on a pair of sunglasses April doesn’t like, so with a bruised ego, I buy a gift card and make my way into Claire’s®, where the girls are again abuzz with energy, gazing at the wonderland of hair bows, earrings, necklaces, headbands, and bracelets. On one hand, most of this stuff is cheap. On the other hand, it’s mostly a bunch of glittery, sparkly trinkets. I find the girls, each with their own shopping bags, full of wonderful things they’ve selected for their mom. Emma has a yellow hair bow, a yellow headband, some dangly earrings, and a funky bracelet. Abby has a couple of bracelets, another headband, a necklace and a few other oddities. I don’t think any of it looks like anything April would like. It looks like stuff that nine and thirteen-year-old girls like. I smell a conspiracy.
I’m not going to argue about it. We’ve got the gift card for the sunglasses, and the girls each have several things to give their mom, which are only from them. The end is in sight. I might just survive this after all. I ran a half marathon once, and this is how I felt when I could see the finish line. My heart is racing. I’m filled with adrenaline. My confidence is soaring.
And then, as it usually does when Emma and I are involved, disaster strikes. Emma drops her $6 milkshake. It lands hard on the tile floor, the cup splits in half, exploding all over the floor and racks of merchandise. I jerk spastically to try and catch it, and when I do, I knock over a rack of headbands, sending them scattering across the floor. The lid flies off the cup, and cold, sticky milkshake, manages to cover anything, and everything, in a ten foot radius. It’s on me, on Emma, in her hair, and on a lady who just happens to be standing a little too close.
ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?
I look around apologetically to anyone who would make eye contact. I snap into action, grab some paper towels and make a miserable attempt to clean up the horrible mess we’d just created. I give a handful of paper towels to the unlucky lady standing near us, and apologize profusely. I pay for our things, quickly, and get the heck out of there before we tear anything else up.
I am now in as big of a hurry to get out of there as the girls were when we first arrived. Emma is behind me, trying to keep up, and she suddenly yells, “Wait! We need to go to Build-a-Bear®!”
I say, “Emma, your mother does NOT want anything from Build-a-Bear®. I’m sure of it.”
Emma says, “Well, she probably don’t want any of this crap we got her at Claire’s either, but we still got it for her!”
That’s a very good point, Em. But no dice. Sorry, Mom. Better luck next year.
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Stoney Stamper is the author of the popular parenting blog, The Daddy Diaries. He and his wife April have three daughters: Abby, Emma and Gracee. Originally from northeast Oklahoma, the Stampers now live in Tyler, Texas. For your daily dose of The Daddy Diaries, visit Stoney on Facebook or on his website, thedaddydiaries.net.
