It's a wrap: Christmas wrapping

Our dad once estimated that our mother purchased 250 gifts at Christmas. This was for us three girls with a few aunts, uncles, grandparents and friends thrown in (who were lucky to net one each). We think he was a little shy of the actual number.

While we can see our father's point that this was a tad excessive, we can't help but try to carry on the tradition. What are we teaching our children, you say? Relax. The spoils ain't what they used to be.

PSI
How can a budget-wise family fill an entire living room with presents, edging out even Santa in PSI (presents per square inch)? Pull the furniture in closer to the tree the night of. What was once a spacious great room is now the size of one over-filled closet, bursting with, if not 250 presents, the illusion thereof.

Go Big
Boxes come cheap. What's more exciting than seeing a huge box under the Christmas tree? But wait. Anyone, any age, loves the irony of finding a tiny, tiny (also wrapped) present inside. It's a game! Run with it. For children, the game begins when they discard the gift and commence with the best present of all: the box.

If you can come up with 2 or 3 cardboard boxes the size of your Great Grandma Simmerman, you are golden. Not only will they offer great PSI (forget global warming for this one day — increasing your footprint is a plus), they'll have a fort they can leave you alone in until school starts up again.

Flashy
Go for presents that make noise or light up. A crying baby doll? Leave her on. Wrap her. Kick her box every chance you cross the living room. Your child will be almost certain that she knows what's in the box. Let the investigation unfold.
Consider a tractor or pick-up truck with lights. Screw it, leave its headlights on when you wrap it, all night, all week if you have to (the kids will anyway the first chance they get). One vibrating, flashing almost-guessed gift is worth 10 quietly wrapped shirt boxes.

Lumpy & Ugly
Did you buy a Barbie swimming pool? A fire engine with an extension ladder? We urge you to miswrap them. Resist the urge to put these in a big box (remember, those are for the small gifts). Instead, bundle those unruly suckers up with one arm tied behind your back. Use lots of tape, duct tape if you have to. Make it ugly. Leave pretty for your grandmother's gift.

Give this thing attitude, enough to fill the room. Extend the ladder, attach Barbie to it. Pose her about to leap into the pool from the ladder. Have Ken trying to stop her or better yet, rate her. Wrap him and her and their heads all lumpy too. This will be, hands down, the first present your kids rip open.

Unwrapped
Don't forget the surprise factor of leaving a single toy unwrapped, on top of the (hollow) heap of overboxed presents. Give them the instant gratification of a fat fluffy teddy bear you got for just $4.99 when you bought $50 worth of screaming dolls at Toys "R" Us. The teddy bear will be the crème de la crème, the king on the throne, and the victory will be yours.

Well, no matter what your budget is this Christmas, we hope you take time to be a little creative with it. It's not about the number of gifts, we know. It's the thought that counts. But, remember, with a little sleight of hand, it can look like you came up with both this year. Merry Christmas!

The minivan affair

I've recently started a pretty intimate relationship with someone new.

It happens twice a day, sometimes three. I could do it all day, but 5 minutes is heaven too. I look forward to it the minute I drop the kids off at school.

It’s not with another man, it’s with my minivan.

The day begins like this: The kids and I leave the house late for school. We argue in the parking lot, I comb their hair with my fingers and double-check for hats and mittens. They will have none, even if they left the house with some.

Next we negotiate the crosswalk. Invariably we all decide to cross at the exact different moment. Several other minivans in carline are trying to judge if I can see the child I’ve lost and if I'm going after him or if I’m going to herd the one closest to me.

Inside the school, I finally bid them adieu. As in, I look up and they are gone. “Why do I keep walking you in?” I ask. “You don't even say good-bye to me!”

"You like to, remember?" they say.

"Yes," I say. "Love to."

Then, in 5 minutes, the chaos is over. They are shuffled into their rooms and I head back out to the parking lot. The oldest not only didn't let me kiss him goodbye, he took a swing at my head with his backpack to disguise the fact that I leaned toward him face-first. I'm, in a word, pissed.

Enter the minivan.

I slide into the front seat, shut the door. I lay my head back on the rest and recover from the “backpack incident.” It's me and my minivan, alone at last.

I check my rearview mirror. No one. I check the backseats, no one and a pair of mittens. I run my fingers through my own hair now, take one more look in the mirror and notice I look half hungover (I swear, I am not) but half decent. Most of all, there is silence, held in by metal and bolts and door locks.

The affair can begin.

I get out my cell phone. I check messages. I check Facebook. I click on a link to the newest books out this week. I read a little review. I think about buying the book even.

I text delightful repertoire with other moms sitting in other minivans in other parking lots at other schools. 

I keep my head down at all costs; eye contact is deadly. If a passing truck takes off my bumper, I will not look up. I am in the minivan space and, I do believe, invisible.

Each morning it’s like this. It’s only 5 minutes, but they're all mine. Later today I might find myself in my new relationship again after groceries. Or after a meeting or after a run. Some days it's before the run. Yes, it's starting to take precedence over everything I do.

I’ve tried to break up. Really, I have. It's bad for me, I know. It’s a waste of time, sitting in a parking lot, getting nothing done, precious minutes, day after day. 

But is it? I mined three good comebacks out of a single rendezvous just this week. And I can easily credit remembering everyone’s 2012 birthday to those 5 minutes of silence (and Facebook) each day. Not to mention the sins I’ve not committed because this one is so satisfying.

So, let’s face it. Next time you see me in the minivan going nowhere, just keep walking. I’m busy, I'm working, I'm otherwise engaged. Also, I'm invisible.

It appears that this affair isn’t ending anytime soon.

Running Late to School & The Shortcut

Get in the car. Now.

I have a problem. But only from 8:30-8:45 every morning. It never fails, when it’s time to leave for school, we're late.

I can get to school in 15 minutes. Really, it should take 20. Taking only 15 is the sign of a very bad morning.

The most contentious route is known as the “The Shortcut.” It’s a two-track that cuts off a millimeter of distance and possibly 15 seconds total travel time.

On good mornings, I take the paved road with maintained shoulders, white lines and stop signs. But if it’s a rough morning and the car ahead of me isn’t going fast enough or, worse, the speed limit, I know what I have to do.

I take The Shortcut.

“Watch for the white car!” I’ll cry, taking a hard right. We have our mark.

But it's a gamble because The Shortcut comes with a few hazards of its own.

It’s only a half-mile long but it crosses two terrains that minivans aren’t built for. The first is a swamp with unruly growth dragging along the paint on each side of the vehicle. But it’s not that the road is narrow through the swamp (in fact, two sane mothers driving after school drop-off can pass amiably and with a wave). It’s that the road is so rutted through the swamp that it requires hugging the edge of the road for the smoothest path. To do this takes nerves, agility and a total disregard for resale value.

Once the swamp is navigated, the next problem is the Hill. It’s not long but it’s got issues. The right side looks solid but reveals itself at the last minute to be a sandtrap longer and deeper than both tires on your passenger side. You want to stay out of this hole if you are hoping to make second bell.

The hill also features a nice blind spot – the moment you need speed to make the hill, you need to take the left lane at the last second to avoid the sand pit. This makes the Shortcut a fine idea except for one glittering moment of terror when you top the hill. Will you make it up? All signs point to yes. But will you make it alive? No guarantees.

The ultimate goal at this point is not to get to school on time or even alive. It’s to beat the white car to the intersection closest to the school. If we do, Mom has made it worth her time and money to bottom out the shocks on her aging minivan.

However, if the white car should pass through the intersection whilst we sit at the lone stop sign, things get ugly and fast.

“Cheater!” one of us (usually me) will cry. “You’ll pay for this!” another will cry (again, me, referring to the money needed to replace the muffler left on the washout below the hill).

In the end, I’ll tail the white car to school and calmly enter the drop-off line like all the other moms in minivans. But I’ll be in turmoil. Come tomorrow, do I risk another tardy, damage the van or get up 15 minutes earlier?

Clearly, the first step is to find out how many tardies the kids have left. No reason to take any drastic measures just yet…