Giving

Last year, after our visit to Australia, my partner and I returned with gifts for Boss & Cherub.

For Boss, we got a kangaroo hand-puppet from the Australian Geographic Shop and a copy of The Magic Pudding from the ABC Shop. Boss is a great reader.

For Cherub, we got a wombat hand-puppet and a copy of Possum Magic from the same respective shops. Cherub likes picture books and loves being read to.

We gave Boss & Cherub their furry animal gifts first, Boss was most appreciative and thanked us. He was in a ‘big boy’ phase, methinks.

Cherub unwrapped the wombat hand-puppet, took one look at it and buried his head in his mother’s lap and said, close to tears, “It’s not what I wanted!” I bit my lip and looked over at my partner, pulling an “Oh no! We’ve made Cherub cry!” face. B&C’s Mum, mortified, tried to reassure us, “He’ll like it soon. It will probably become Favourite Wombat before long! Really.” Equally, I tried to reassure her, with a smile, that it did not matter if he did not like the gift. After all, giving a gift is half the fun and it’s really okay by me if my gift languishes in the back of a cupboard.

B&C’s mum started telling Cherub about gratefulness when receiving gifts, irrespective of what they are.

I then pulled out the rectangular wrapped objects and said, “Um, there’s another, each.” Now, some people like to receive books as presents. I am one of those people. My partner is another. B&C’s Mum is another. We are not a rare breed, certainly, but book-giving is difficult, especially for children, which is why we had also bought the furry animals. We were both a little worried about how the books would go down and really did not want to make Cherub actually cry. “It’s, um, well, it’s obvious what it is,” said I as I handed them over. The books were what we had really wanted to give the kids.

Boss opened his and seemed mighty pleased, sounding out the title and flipping through the book straight away to have a little read, as much as he could, anyway. My partner and I started talking over the top of each other to explain The Magic Pudding to B&C’s Mum, to explain who Norman Lindsay was, who the Lindsay family were and what they meant to Australia’s literary, creative and artistic culture at the turn of the century (or thereabouts). I think I got a plug in there for Joan Lindsay and Picnic at Hanging Rock, too.

Cherub moved to his own chair and opened his book. Once fully revealed he looked up at us with huge eyes and said, “This is EXACTLY what I have ALWAYS wanted ever since I was VERY LITTLE.”

Trying to repress our laughter, we nodded seriously at Cherub and said something along the lines of, “Oh good,” while B&C’s Mum interjected with, “From one extreme to the other!”

I find Cherub’s announcement difficult to believe as his mother, a children’s books aficionado, had never heard of the (Australian) best-selling Possum Magic (it’s pretty darn famous in Aus, and I remember it fondly from my childhood.)

This year, we got them both books without worrying too much that they would not like them. It was a less eventful present opening and both were appreciative.

But Cherub, despite being another year older and now in school, still came out with a few gems.

The first was pre-gift giving. He had been just larking about quite happily when it became obvious that something had just occurred to him and it was Very Important. He clambered onto the chair next to mine and said, “Oanh! Oanh!” to which, of course, the only reply is, “Yes, Cherub?” His hand reached up to my left cheek – he likes to hold onto you when he’s talking to you – and rested there. Without breaking eye contact or blinking he said, most seriously, “You and Partner do not have any children.”

“No, Cherub. This is true. We don’t.”

“And you don’t know if you are going to have any children, either. Do you?”

“That, too, is also true.”

“Okay.”

And he left, to return to his larking.

The next was after gift-giving, when it was Cherub’s bedtime. He wanted to paint a picture. He had been briefly diverted by the gift giving but as soon as it was unwrapped, appreciated and thanked for, he went right back to his earlier plan, “Okay, I need some paper and black paint. Then I am going to paint one layer and wait for it to dry. Then I’m going to paint another layer and wait for it to dry. Then I’m going to paint another layer and wait for it to dry. And then I will need green paint.”

“Right-o,” said I. “And what will you do with the green paint?”

Cherub looked at me like I was daft. “I don’t know yet. It takes a long time for paint to dry. And I will probably do something else.”

I tried to persuade him that watching paint dry could be fun but he got a bit upset, so I dropped it. Later, he said to his mum with utmost concern, “I don’t have to watch paint dry, do I? I don’t want to.”

The best, however, was pre-dinner, as we were all trying to work out who sat where. Cherub chose a seat next to my Partner and then said to his mum, “I want to sit next to Oanh because I like Oanh.” This made me more ridiculously happy than anything else at all. And I’m still chuffed about it.

Best. Present. Ever.

Christmas Cheer

I had dinner with Boss and Cherub and their parents the other weekend and B&C’s Mum asked what we were doing on Christmas day. They, of course, have a host of family lunches and dinners to get to, which will involve much driving from one place to another place. We have organised Christmas lunch (which will undoubtedly roll into dinner then late into the evening) with a few other non-British couples who all just happen to be childless. B&C’s Mum laughed and said, “So, all the childless Christmas cynics are celebrating Christmas together!”

I related the above story to a workmate and she said, “You? No! Oanh is not a cynic!” and then wandered back to her desk, leaving me at the photocopier pondering the comment she had just made.

I have changed. I used to be such a Christmas grump.

In Australia, I did not exactly hate Christmas, it was just a very meh, over-hyped, over-commercialised occasion that had lost any meaning that I could glean.

Over time, I have removed myself from popular consumerist culture: no women’s magazines, no TV; very few newspapers (I read my news online with ads turned off). Interestingly, now that I cycle to work (and most other places too), I don’t even see much poster advertising, so I really am removed from popular culture – except for blogging (which, in its own way, is very much a guage of popular culture).

Christmas is no pressure for me: my partner and I don’t get each other Christmas presents; my family are far away and, anyway, I am exempt from my sister’s organised (not very) Secret Santa draw as the rules are (1) only the kids get presents and (2) you have to buy for the number of kids you have; my partner’s family are far away; and we have very few friends over here.

So Christmas can be whatever I want it to be. I can take all that joy and excitement and direct it whither I will. Everyone else’s excitement – for whatever reason and whatever Christmas means to them (if it’s religious, great; if it’s because you’re hanging out for that bang-up fabulous gift, good for you; if you like roast turkey and trimmings, cool; or, oddly, ‘piggies in blankets’ (ugh), you are weird but that’s your business, not mine) – it’s infectious. I’m infected.

When I cycle home, the Christmas lights in people’s front windows are warm and inviting (‘though I don’t think they’d be much pleased if a bedraggled, cold and wet cyclist rocked up, despite the abundant seasonal cheer I have).

I grocery-shopped, dreading Christmas tunes. Instead, as I was standing in line, I heard someone singing off-key:

Rudolf the dum da dumdaaar
Had a very la la laaaaa
And if you blah-ba ba baaaaa
Dum dee dumdee dum dee DAAAAA.
DUM dee blah-blah Christmas EEEEVE
Dumdee dum la SAY
Rudolf with your hmmm so daaar
Won’t you dee hmmm dee DAAAAA

Bemused, I turned around to see the shopping basket collector half-singing, half-mumbling, mostly mangling the song, but grinning and ever-so happy. Did she really not know the lyrics? How lovely. Instead of saying sorry when she bumped into people or excuse me when she had to get past them, she would cry out, “Merry Christmas!” at the top of her lungs and then keep singing her version of Rudolf. I’m sure she must have annoyed some people but it’s quite difficult to stay annoyed at someone so blithely good-natured. She really did like Christmas.

The tall guy behind me in the queue got this wild-eyed look on his face when she ‘Merry Christmas’ed him and I whispered at him, “You just have to say Merry Christmas back and then she’ll leave you alone.” He muttered, “Merry Christmas” and she beamed at him. Slowly, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards into a smile. I winked at her and she winked back, though I did not get a Merry Christmas. Possibly she knew who needed cheering up so saved her hearty enthusiasm for them. Me? I’d been grinning ever since I’d first heard her off-key, off-kilter Rudolf.

(As an aside, I like winking. Do you like winking? Why is it not more widespread?)

I’ve even been writing cards, making origami wreaths and thinking about making truffles to give to workmates for Christmas.

Also, I am hoping that it will snow. Despite the low probability of this occurring, I’m optimistic. And I will remain optimistic until all hope is gone (it’s just the sort of girl I am).  By then I’ll also be busy making the trimmings for a Christmas lunch with the Childless Cynics (sounds like a good band name to me), enjoying mulled wine (or apple juice, if you’re me, which you’re not because I’m me and you’re you) and probably talking and laughing. A lot of each, thereof.

Yep, I’m totally infected. Watch out – it’s contagious.

Pine trees covered in snow. Obviously Christmas trees. (Photo from somewhere-in-Germany, March 2008)

Bosses and Cherubs

I must stop being so inordinately pleased by the fact that I outwitted a 6 year old. It is … unseemly.

I babysat for some friends on Saturday night. They went off to see the new Bond movie and for some dancing. I read to their two boys – let’s call them Boss and Cherub -, watched them fall asleep and then crept into the loft conversion to settle in with a good book, listening out for any sleep disturbances. There were very few.

As I was reading to both boys, Cherub fell asleep on me and when I finished the story, I shifted him to his bed. Boss said, “Is Cherub asleep?” I nodded. “You know, Oanh, sometimes, when one of us falls asleep before the other one, the other one can stay up to watch TV.”

Me: “Hey, that’s a great idea. Just to make sure Cherub is definitely asleep, though, let’s wait 5 minutes and pretend we’re asleep, too.”

Boss: “Okay.”

So the little Boss curled over, smiled up at me and closed his eyes, pretending he is asleep. He was such a good pretender that he actually did fall asleep. I almost did as well, but as I was sitting on the floor between two beds, and not lying down on a nice comfy mattress with doona, I managed to bestir myself. Grinning because I had not been tricked into letting Boss stay up watching TV, I turned the lights off.

It was a very wet, very windy and overall miserable night. The book I had chosen from my friends’ shelves was Diana Wynne Jones’ The Time of the Ghost, a rather unsettling story. As the wind lashed around the house and rain beat against the windows, I read. I almost turned the TV on because the story scared me so much – except I had to finish the story so that it would leave me. Otherwise, I would stay afraid.

Every now and then, I went down to the boys’ room to see if they were okay. They’d moved from where they’d started, and kicked off their doonas (although being English, they’d probably call them duvets). A few times, Cherub called out in his sleep and I came in to comfort him. The way he sat bolt upright, eyes closed, lurching forwards for a hug was at once disconcerting and utterly charming. The first time, I murmurred at him, “Mum’s out, but it’s me, Oanh’s here. It’s okay,” He came fully awake, which worried me, until he said, with his head to one side, “Hello, Oanh!” as if I had just turned up at his house. He gave me a hug and settled back to sleep.

Later, Boss woke and came looking for me. “Are Mum and Dad not back yet?” he asked. “No, but I’m still here,” said me, “Are you okay? Do you want to stay up?” “No, I’ll go back to bed.” But he stood, confused, in front of me. I got onto my knees to give him a hug, and asked him if he wanted anything, “Another story? A pee? Water?” To the last, I got a nod, so I trotted off to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. He drank, gave me a hug and then went back to his bed.

I love the tactility of children. These two, in particular, have no qualms about demanding hugs or climbing onto your lap to talk to you. Cherub has a habit of reaching his hand to your cheek as he talks, or of putting his face right in front of your face. Boss likes to hold onto you while he is talking.

There is something so upsetting about a child upset in its sleep, and something so comforting about being able to soothe a child, with rubs on the back and murmurred words of,”It’s okay”, even though I don’t know what’s wrong or what I would do if I did know what was wrong.

Much later, their parents came home. I was comforting Cherub at the time and trying to settle him back to sleep, but they’d missed him so much they were quite happy to take over the settling part. “You okay?” Dad whispered at me. “Totally fine. They were great.” Boss woke and said, “Dad!” and “Bye Oanh!” and Cherub sleepily lifted his arm to wave at me, and I snuck off.

Oh, and I finished the book.