Don't Spoil Christmas

"No kid in this country needs another toy!"

My dad said this to me one year - no, actually two, three years in a row - while asking what my kids might like for Christmas. He told me flatly he would not be giving them toys. I wanted to reach through the phone and pump his hand, kiss his cheek and throw confetti over his head. Amen, brother....or, uh, Dad! That is the true spirit of season, especially to moms who are harassed by constant clutter.

My dad basically said all American kids are spoiled rotten with toys. I heartily agree. I read a Time For Kids article my kids brought from school that spoke specifically to that point: American children have so many toys that they are taking over family homes, stressing out parents with monstrous clutter. And, my friends, imagine the waste of time in managing that clutter, the money expended in acquiring those toys, and the sheer volume of playthings destined for the landfill eventually. It's nuts.

I read this article, I'm Dreaming of a Toyless Christmas, this morning and so thoroughly agreed with it, I had to write my own post about the subject (something I intended to weigh in on last year). Our family of six lives in a nice but limited 1220 sq ft home, and we simply do not need anything more in this house.

Yet, I get it - that idea of the dream Christmas when your kids' faces light up with sheer joy beneath the glow of the tree lights as they gaze in wonder at the fabulous, copious, perfect gifts left for them by a jolly man in red. That vision tortures me every year, too, and if I weren't grounded in memories of my childhood and did not have a husband more frugal than I am to stay my hand sometimes, I might cave to it.

I've been on both sides, feeling that I gathered too much for our kids (at Ikea where most toys are inexpensive) or wishing in that 12th hour when I see the disappointment in their eyes that Santa had gotten them that one (often quite expensive) thing they really wanted. Holiday shopping is stressful, a chore in gauging others' expectations, for just that reason.

Though sorely and perpetually tempted by the consumer frenzy, I can't go overboard on any child - my own or my nephews and nieces - because it wasn't my experience growing up; it is not what it's about to me. I won't compete with others' extravagance, either. I earnestly wish we would all do less and teach our kids by example sound financial sense, an appreciation for countless beautiful things the holidays provide that aren't wrapped in pretty paper and bows, and, most importantly, the spirit of giving generously to those less fortunate.

I understand and remind myself it's not about the gifts, even while I'm still agonizing over them but noting it especially once I see how quickly most gifts are laid aside.

In the article I read today by Erica Marie, she points out that she would like to give and receive more gifts of experience such as gift cards to favorite eateries, bowling packages, and mini golf outings. What a beautiful idea! After all, memories are the best gift; you can play with them for a lifetime and pass them on to your children. Last year my husband and I finally took our kids to the circus as our present to them. They were thrilled by their first circus experience, and it was an amusing, and very memorable, family outing.

Yes, I know aunts and uncles and grandparents (not my dad) will give them toys and gadgets, and I hope they have fun with it. But it brings me joy when I see clothes or books or special ornaments to be kept instead of expensive playthings. I certainly can't ban the giving of toys, but, luckily, the spirit of St. Nick in this house breathes more tradition and moderation than extravagance.

Built to Last...a year or two

I'm going to drive this car into the ground, people say. I've said it with every vehicle before it got annihilated in a car accident a few years later, and what I mean is, I'm going to drive this thing until it can't drive no more.

You don't hear people say similar stuff about major appliances:

I'm going to load this dishwasher into the floor.

I'm going to toast this toaster into the counter.

I'm going to eat this refrigerator into the basement.

But the frugal among us cherish such resolves. We will eek the usefulness out of every major purchase for years, and dare we hope that it will be for dozens of years? We don't replace things simply because they are out of date. No, we replace them when they are falling apart, not functioning at even 1% of their potential and are an indictment against the style choices of an earlier age. We firmly believe that a major appliance should last a minimum of 20 years, even if we are the Arch Queen of Accidental Disaster.

This is why I detest my expensive, energy-efficient dishwasher. It and I do not hold this truth to be self-evident: that all dishwashers were created to wash dishes.

A year ago we had to have an intervention, as it had lost its sense of purpose in life because it was no longer WASHING dishes. The blasted thing was only three years old. The manufacturer's repair man came out (shudder) and thoroughly scrubbed out our dishwasher, all gunked with soap, and replaced all its hoses - gunked with soap. We paid the price of a new dishwasher for this service. In exchange we were given specific instructions for our high-efficiency dishwasher:

Use only the best, most expensive powder dish detergent

 

Buy expensive dishwasher residue fighter to compliment pricey detergent. Use EVERY SINGLE TIME.

 

Always use high-temp setting

 

Run tap water for several minutes to get it really hot before starting dishwasher

 

Keep water heater at 130 degrees or greater to enable dishwasher to dissolve soap

 

Stroke dishwasher. Compliment it often. Assure it that it's doing a great job, and wash all nasty dishes thoroughly before loading them into its fancy interior.

 

 

Okay, I made up that last one. But I'm understandably bitter, because the stupid thing recently had another identity crisis. The top arm wasn't moving, soap wasn't dissolving and our dishes weren't getting clean. My husband wanted to replace it, but when I pointed out it was only four years old and that we had already invested the down payment of a house on it, he reconsidered. Instead, he called a friend over, and they took it apart bit by bit and found NOTHING AT ALL WRONG WITH IT.

 

Stubborn, I resolved to die under a crushing pile of my own dirty kitchenware before replacing the damn thing, so I began to hit a special, top-secret combo of buttons before running each load, tilting its door at a 35 degree angle while pouring in the soap, whispering sweet nothings through gritted teeth before setting its cycle, and performing special rain dances for it as it filled with water. All this followed by embarrassing supplication on my knees. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. 

 

As I see it, if I finally give up on this thing in which we have invested blood, sweat and tears, there is only one course of action left to me. I must leave it by the curb with a fifty-dollar bill, some homemade chocolate-chip cookies and this note attached:

 

Please take our dishwasher. Late model, energy-efficient piece of c--p will only run with constant coaxing, flattery, caressing, coercion or by an Act of God. Will gladly accept old, steel-door, last century, water-guzzling dishwasher that actually works in exchange. Delivery negotiable.