Knowing, as I do, that a judicial order to walk and chew gum while using my phone would be a form of capital punishment, I left the gum in the car last week while attempting something else I’m borderline incapable of: Buying children’s clothes without on-site spousal supervision.
In place of “Home Alone,” imagine “Store Alone.”
Things got off to a good start when, in an instance of providence, God blessedly left a shopping cart for me just inside the entrance to Kohl’s. Because, as soon as I walked in, lightning struck with the realization that I’d be trafficking in Kohl’s Cash.
It’s a form of currency my spouse treats with the reverence of those who believe that the Three Wise Men used it to buy gold, frankincense and myrrh for the Baby Jesus.
The cart kept upright on the way to children’s ware, and I was only modestly sweating while sorting through sizes from 2T to 6T, and saying, under my breath, “T is for toddler, Tom.”
But just as I was settling in, another monkey wrench was thrown my way in the form of a complication Wifey never mentioned in our pregame briefing: Tags with a letter M followed by a number.
Even ignorant I knew M couldn’t mean medium, unless a medium came by to ask if you needed help.
It was only near session’s end that my virtual counselor (via Face Time on my Smart Phone) told me the M stands for months.
“Month isn’t a size, it’s an age,” I raged just seconds before my counselor texted another copy of the Serenity Prayer, an invoice and a suggestion that I add a little something to my own Christmas list: A life.
These repeated traumas sent me into DEFCON 1 protocol, in which I mouth bad word or five, take few cleansing breaths and focus on the task at hand, in this case Christmas shopping for a child who otherwise might not have one.
Briefings prepared by the Springfield Corps of the Salvation Army provided the A 20-some month boy needed clothes and in size 2-T in most things. While viewing the list earlier, I had an Einstein-like revelation: Since I’m buying clothing, wouldn’t it be great to color coordinate the pants, shirt and T-shirt?
After wondering why the Wizard of Oz song, “If he only had a brain,” was playing through the store, I recalled my wife advising me that Carter’s (the Apple of children’s clothing) made matching sets for taste-impaired shoppers like me,
Just then the song ended, and an angry man’s voice came on to say: “Merry Christmas, ya filthy Garanimal.”
With the outfit in the basket, I turned to what would be my favorite gift for the 2-year-old I was by then thinking of as my little guy – a little guy I didn’t want to get cold in the winter.
Soon a thick blue coat in the style of the Michelin Man appeared like a vision. Then my inner shopper (we’d never met) directed me to the blue Sonic the Hedgehog hat-and-gloves set a few steps away, knowing it was a no-brainer for a no-brainer.
As happy as I remain about coat, the last item I got would be his favorite: The potty with Bluey on it that looks like Porsche of potties. Plus, it would pair perfectly with the books on his mother’s wish list.
Might this Christmas, I hoped, connect him to the grand tradition of people who regularly catch up on their reading while seated on a white porcelain throne in the quietest room in the house.
With the advice and consent of my wife, shopping for the 5-year-old girl I had drawn was as smooth as silk.
The comforter set my wife recommended was the best in the store - and the plush dark blue as perfect complement as the smile on my wife’s face as she held the thin, soft pink hoodie she’d suggested and said, “What girl that age wouldn’t love this?”
Which brings us to my final selection and second Einstein moment of the shopping adventure of, having bought one girl the Barbie who came with cooking supplies, I returned to the aisle to buy a different one with fashion accessories. My dream is that they will learn to share both with one another on dress up and cooking play dates.
Bottom line?
In just my second year of taking part of a community program that for decades has provided Christmas presents to children who otherwise would not get them, I felt glad to be part of the tradition and will remember this Christmas as one in which I had the pleasure of imaging a 5-year-old girl snugged into her comforter for the first time and a 2-year-old boy patiently reading a Bluey story to Bluey on his Bluey potty.
I hope your Christmas is as merry.
About the Author