Buying Christmas and birthday presents for my mother was always very difficult. I knew what she didn’t like, cut flowers for a start, so roses were out; anything edible, she went shopping once a week; nothing useful for the kitchen, nothing housewife related at all in fact, so all the nifty gadgets were out and no jewellery unless it was gold, my pocket money never stretched that far.
I was limited to gloves, scarves and Yardley soap, which she had an abundance of by the time I left home for boarding school at the age of twelve. I did sneak in the occasional plastic bouquet of flowers on Mother’s day, but that was before I grew out of my gauche phase.
Once I moved to America the problem was solved. Presents were not sent across the royal pond. Instead cheques, written in sterling, arrived in cards. They flew back across said pond to end up in my British bank account which grew deliciously.
My mother was not a good gift giver or receiver. Buying was a bother. Receiving was unsettling.
I teeter on the verge of inheriting her response to gifts and gifting but my level headed and realistic hubs has kept my fingers tingling to unwrap my presents and my smiles coming while I watch my children unwrap theirs.
There is an art to the buying of a gift.
Hubs believes that giving is better than receiving.
My instinct, when I handed over a thoughtfully wrapped gift as a youngster, was to bolt. I preferred not to see what I always imagined would be the look of disappointment in their eyes once the paper was off.
I enjoyed getting gifts though, their attractive wrappings were tantalising.
Hubs also taught me that the best gifts to give are those you would really like to receive.
Now when I deliver a gift, I enjoy the unwrapping, the discovering and the delighting, completely missing the receiver’s expressions in my enthusiasm for the revealing of the treasure I loved.
I have received various gifts from my children during their young lives. Some I remember like my lap desk, iPod, books, Uggs, a keyboard cover, the Wicked CD, a handwoven bracelet, or a fountain pen. Most I’ve forgotten, not because they were not appreciated, but because they are nestled in my precious collection of things remembered that I can no longer place the moment of acquisition.
Last year my oldest daughter, the school teacher, gave me a gift I will always remember. She broke my mother’s most enduring law.
Paris didn’t have much money so she decided to give me the gift of time.
She collected me from home in her car and ferried me to a little Mexican restaurant she had discovered was excellent value for money (big portions), small and family run.
Of all the gifts I received that year this is the one that keeps popping into my mind with a fondness that causes my eyes to soften. I sat opposite my beautiful daughter, no other siblings to distract us, and we drank water, studied the menu, shared chips, split fajitas, ate sopapillas and talked and talked and talked.
My mother disliked going out for dinner, she thought it a waste of time and money.
This gift from my daughter was neither of those.
Presence, you just can’t beat it.
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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