In the sixth grade, I received the most ridiculous and slightly insulting Christmas gift. My teacher decided to allow the class to have a gift exchange, determined by drawing names. I don’t remember whose name I drew, but I could hardly be expected to remember it: memory of the gift I received eclipses other important details associated with the festivities of that day.
I do remember the initial excitement I felt as my classmate Ross, who had drawn my name, brought me a rather diminutive present. (That’s not his real name, though; I use it to protect myself against unexpected reprisals thirty-five years after the event.) After tearing apart the wrapping paper—the time-honored way for a kid to open a present—I saw something daintily wrapped in cellophane. “Wha—What is it?” I thought. I had the faint urge to sniff it. “Maybe it’s some sort of candy.” After all, it had the dimensions of a four-piece Whitman’s Sampler, a traditional stocking stuffer in my family. I unlaced the cellophane, carefully lifted the gift out of it, and rotated the thing in my hand to get a good look at it, still uncertain what it was.
I’m still shocked at the discovery I made. It looked to be a small plastic sailboat with a cream-colored teddy bear at the helm. The mast and triangular sail were one piece, the hull another, and the teddy bear, which wore a scarf and looked happy, made a third piece. Wow, a gift you could take apart and reassemble. Boys do like that sort of toy.
But there was something odd about this one: it didn’t look particularly Christmasy, nor did it appear to be as … well, as boyish as, say, Legos or even a simple G. I. Joe action-figure. Plus, most awkward of all, it had a flowery fragrance. I held the thing in my hand and glanced at my classmates, some of whom were busily engaged with their own surprises, while others appeared to be grinning at me, or mine. But no one came up to inquire about my gift. That, however, didn’t bother me because, feeling that I was fast becoming the rump of a sick joke, I wasn’t too sure I wanted anyone to inquire about my gift. I looked down at the thing once more. The corners of my mouth drooped and my nose began to wrinkle. What I seemed to be holding was a bath-tub toy, or decoration: a plastic sailboat and a three-inch teddy bear made of, yes, soap.
What was I to do with it? Seriously, did Ross expect me, a twelve year-old boy who wore beat-up Keds and worn-out Wrangler jeans every day to play two-touch Nerf football at recess—did he really expect me to play with this in the tub? Tub! I didn’t even take baths anymore! I had graduated summa cum laude to showers years ago. I wish I could remember whether I said Thanks, but I can’t.
* * *
When my mom picked me up after school, to take me to the doctor’s office for vaccination shots (an appropriate follow-up), I pulled the gift from my bookbag and, disgusted, explained what had happened. As she drove, she glanced at the thing in my hands. She repeated this a couple times, eyebrows furrowed. I wish I could have read her thoughts, heard her with each glance form an interpretation, a judgment. I needed confirmation—that I had been given the shaft! But I received none.
Instead, I saw a grin start to sneak up on her face. She suddenly broke out into unabashed laughter. Her eyes even watered a little. Then, after a few protracted seconds, she closed her mouth very deliberately, no doubt realizing that I was about to cry, or scream. She looked at me apologetically, though I can hardly tell you what she felt more sorry for—at my having received soap for Christmas, in front of my classmates, or for just now laughing at that fact at my expense. Anyway, I didn’t blame her. Anybody would laugh at this—anybody, that is, besides Ross. Or maybe he, too, laughed. Heck, maybe he’s laughing still.
“What is it?” she asked. (That’s a true sign you’ve got a good gift, isn’t it?—someone laughs at it before knowing exactly what it is.)
“It’s soap … I think,” I said. She choked down a little giggle and cleared her throat, as if to clear her mind. We were at the doctor’s office now. She parked, cut off the engine, and then, summoning the most sagacious counsel that thirteen years of parenting had afforded her, said after a pause, and without looking at me, “Well, sweetie, it’s the thought that counts.”
“Well, I think it stinks!” Of course, I meant it was a lousy present, but given the context, it wasn’t the cleverest of things to say.
Surprising to me, she did not reprimand me. She looked at me and sighed—sympathetically, I thought—and then said, “Well, evidently, honey, Ross must’ve thought you do.” She chuckled once more and hastened out of the car.
She stood in front of the office door and looked back at me with an honest grin and mouthed See you inside. She went in. I sat in the car and scowled at my present. My soap. Finally, I tossed it onto the dashboard and went in to get my shot.
Perhaps not surprisingly, I don’t recall the shot’s being painful.