Hola and happy holidays, everyone.
Tensions are high, people on edge, fights and riots breaking
out everywhere. Oh, and then there’s the political situation. But I was talking
about Christmas shopping.
Talk about madness. Say what you will about Amazon (like
politics, everyone has a highly volatile opinion of them), I’m thankful for Amazon
at Christmas time. My wife and I pretty much get most of our shopping done
without ever leaving the sofa.
But things weren’t always like that.
I’m thinking the infamous year of the “Water Baby.”
I made the parental mistake of asking my then eight year old
daughter what she’d like for Christmas.
“A Water Baby.”
“A what?”
“A Water Baby. Melissa and Brianne
have one.”
“Oh. Well, if Melissa and Brianne
have one, they’ve gotta’ be something special.”
I had no idea what a “Water Baby”
was, yet pretended to. Because dads know everything, right? After researching,
I discovered Water Babies were special dolls you fill with water to give them
that “realistic” feeling. Well… First, gross. Second, why are eight year old
girls wanting to feel a real baby?
Stupid Melissa and Brianne.
But the hunt was on!
Instead of eating during my work lunch-breaks,
I scoured the stores and malls of the Greater Kansas City metropolitan area. I
called stores, pleaded my case for the stupid, highly elusive Water Baby doll.
I enlisted my parents into high-stepping action. I offered to buy the
doll at twice the price, to any takers, just please don’t let my daughter down
this Christmas! Alas, Water Babies were sold out everywhere.
I came close a few times. My mom found
one at a Kmart. Excited, I asked her how much I owed her for the gift.
My mom said, “Well, I didn’t get it
because the doll was black.”
“Gah! Mom! My daughter won’t care! No one cares but you! Please, please, PLEASE go back and get it! Never mind.
I’ll do it!”
Off I went! I bolted through my
company’s door (“Not feeling good!”), sped and zipped in and out of highway
lanes like Steve McQueen on a bender. I slammed open the Kmart doors, raced
down the toy aisle.
And found an empty shelf.
A forlorn looking mother stood next
to me, equally numb.
“Water Baby?” I asked, shorthand
for every parent who’d been fighting the battle.
She nodded, dead to the world.
I dropped to my knees, raised my
hands and screamed to the uncaring toy manufacturers, the greedy
corporate marketing strategists, and mostly to that insidious duo of
little girls, Melissa and Brianne, “Damn you, Melissa and Brianne! Curse you
foul demonic Water Babies, you ugly looking, jiggly, creepy hunks of stupid plastic!”
Then a stock-boy strolled out. His name
tag identified him as “Chet.” To this day, I identify Chet as the boy who saved
Christmas. In all his slacker, acne-ridden glory.
“Hey,” he says, oh so nonchalantly,
just teasing us, “you looking for Water Babies?”
“Yeah. Please, dear God, tell me
you have some!” I nearly took Chet by his blue lapels and
shook him down.
“Nah. Not here. But our store in Gladstone's got a couple.”
“Thanks, Chet! Love you!”
Out through the store I hurtled. A
dead tie with the other grieving parent. I considered shoving her into the sock
aisle to gain an advantage. (Hey, all’s fair during Christmas toy
shopping.) But I didn’t need to. Once I slammed open the doors, I broke into a full-on, manic sprint through the parking lot. Another breathless race
through the streets of KC. I screeched to a halt in the Gladstone Kmart parking
lot.
The store loomed in front of me,
large and foreboding. Conqueror and creator of Christmas happiness: Kmart.
This was it. My last chance to
bring Christmas joy to my daughter.
I shoved past people--certain
they’d understand--and scuttled down the toy aisle.
Celestial trumpets! Glory
hallelujah!
There in all their grotesquely manufactured
glory, sat two of the ugliest lumps of plastic Mankind had ever created. I
snatched one doll up (hoped my competitor would get the other), locked it under
my arm, thrust a hand out like a running back and slammed my way to the
check-out aisle.
A true Christmas miracle.
Of course the dumb Water Baby’s
novelty wore off after a couple of hours. Soon enough, my daughter discarded the
grotesque mannequin to the bin of unwanted toys.
Still, it was all worth it to see
my daughter light up like a Christmas tree upon opening that gift. (No way did
I let Santa grab the glory for that one, either. My heroic efforts as a dad
demanded to be rewarded).
That Christmas morning, I finally
relaxed. Job well done. After all, I had 364 more days until I had to worry
about it again. (Next year was even worse: Furbies.)
I gripe about the Toy Wars. But, to
tell you the truth, I kinda’ miss it. My daughter’s long grown up, at the stage
where money’s her favorite gift. As are my nieces, nephews, all the children in
our family. It’s boring. There’s no
challenge or joy in tossing around cash.
Maybe I’ll go back to giving
everyone toys no matter their age.
Happy holidays, merry Christmas,
happy Hanukkah, cool Kwanza, super Solstice, beautiful Boxing Day, and to those
parents still in the trenches and fighting the good fight: good luck.
Click the cover for a preview.
