Column: Just one more
The name of the movie escapes me, but I can see Steve Martin being evicted from a house asking if he can take some of his things with him. It went something like this: “Five things?” He asked, “Can I just take five things?”
Eventually, as it becomes clear that he would not be permitted to take anything, he clings helplessly to some ridiculous item and says, “One thing? Can’t I please just take one thing?”
When my grandkids were little, I became infamous for being that guy. Let me explain. My parents and then my in-laws were all givers. They attempted to create comfort for us both growing up and as young newlyweds.
Sometimes the descriptions of their gifts were greatly exaggerated or misunderstood. For example, there was the time my mother-in-law told my wife and I that we would be receiving two of the very best matching gifts we could ever imagine for Christmas. Of course, our minds went everywhere from matching cars to gold nugget jewelry and when the day finally arrived, we both received what appeared to be government surplus navy blue wool blankets.
She had been a child of the Depression.
That was the least of what both sets of parents did for us as we were struggling, young adults trying to make things work with two babies on a teacher’s salary. I’m not going to detail their largess, but every time we pushed back their response went something like this, “Well, would you rather wait until we’re dead? At least now we can experience the joy of giving.” That phrase stuck with me, and even when times were really, really tough financially, we always tried to find a way to help our kids.
Then, however, the grandkids came along, and I’ll unequivocally state here that I blew it. It may have been a combination of comprehending our mortality more clearly, having some extra spending money that we had not had when we were raising a family, or just selfishly wanting to see them smiling, but I was guilty of over-doing it time and time again. It was not just with gifts. It was with candy, and desserts, and clothes. You get the picture.
When the now 19-year-old was 3 or 4, I had him securely fastened in the back seat of my little car, and we were heading toward the local mall. His mother had given me very strict instructions that he was not supposed to get anymore toys from me that day. The closer we got to our destination, the more intense his pleas became to take him to the now defunct Toys R Us store. I explained that his mother had given me instructions and we were not going there.
When the pleas persisted, I turned to him at the stop sign and said, “You know, when you go to heaven, you can’t take anything with you.” To which he pleaded, “Not even my toys?” My stern but realistic answer was, “No, not even your toys.” He looked at me and said, “Not even one toy?” To which I sheepishly turned back around and said, “You’ll have to ask your mother.”
Well, the 7-year-old had a cavity that needed filled this week that probably was the result of the gum and candy he had gotten from me over the previous six years. As the dentist drilled and he squirmed, it was obviously not an enjoyable session.
When the dentist finished, Pete very matter-of-factly turned to him and said, “If you’re going to keep hurting me like that, I won’t be coming back here.” To which his dentist replied, “Oh, I’ll bet you will. Your mother will make sure of that.” What he should have probably said was, “Well, if your granddad would follow orders, there’s a good chance you won’t have to come back.”
The moral of the story? Every action has a reaction. Poor kid.
This article originally appeared on The Daily American: Column: Just one more
