The Gift

They say that it's not the gift, but the thought that counts. However, at a very young age, I think I began to question whether this saying was actually true.

My aunt used to visit us regularly, and on a couple of occasions I remember her saying, "The next time I come to visit, I'm going to bring you a surprise." To say this to a child is probably the most affirming thing you can do. The anticipation of receiving something that is worthy of "surprising" someone with is unbelievable. Not having suffered many disappointments in life yet, my expectation of a gift for the mere sake of "just because" was one of the greatest joys I ever had.

The first gift I remember looking forward to was my weeble-wobble treehouse. I knew that's what it was going to be because on a previous occasion, she had told me she was going to get it for me. So, I was able to put two and two together and deduce what surprise awaited me.

I was in the first grade, around five years old, when she came walking up the sidewalk with my new treehouse in tow. I was ever-so-grateful because it was something I desperately wanted. (My weebles needed a place to live.) It came complete with an orange rocking chair, a little yellow picnic table, and an elevator that could be scrolled up and down by cranking a little orange handle. (Weebles couldn't climb, so the elevator was exactly what they needed.)
I was elated. It was not my birthday. It was not even Christmas. I had received a gift just because. Life couldn't get much better than this.

Then one day, my aunt showed up carrying a large white box with a ribbon on it. She had not told me to expect anything. I had not asked for anything. This time it was a total surprise. I had no idea the gift was even for me until she handed it to me.

"For me?" I asked. "But why?" I was not just surprised; I was confused. It was one thing to ask for something—to receive a gift that was something you had made known you wanted. But what could someone possibly give you when you had not requested anything?

"Because I love you," she said smiling.

I was speechless.

My mother held the box, while I lifted the top, revealing clean, white tissue paper, folded neatly over the mysterious gift. I carefully peeled away the tissue paper, and underneath there lied something that, upon first look, was a bit confusing, for lack of a better word. It was white with big green stripes. It couldn't be! Oh, no, please don't let it be, I thought.

"Isn't it pretty?" my aunt asked.

Again, I was speechless, afraid to say anything. My aunt was beaming.
My mother then pulled it from the box, confirming my worst fear. It WAS what I thought it was.

"Oh! How nice!" my mother said.

"Isn't it? Don't you like it, Lisa?" my aunt asked excitedly.

"Thank you," was all I could say. But in my mind I was already plotting what I was going to do with it, where I was going to hide it, and trying to calm my fears by believing that my mother would not possibly be cruel enough to make me wear it.

"You can wear it to school tomorrow," my mom said.

That put an end to my belief.

The next morning my mother pulled it out of the ropedo so that I could get ready for school. I sat on the bed, feeling guilty that I was not thankful for this so-called gift. I thought a gift was supposed to be something you wanted, something pretty, or something that made you happy. Not this gift. This gift filled me with disappointment and confusion. This gift made me feel like she hated me. I loved my aunt with all my heart, and never did I think that she would do something this cruel to me. Had I done something wrong?

It hung on the knob of the ropedo waiting for me. A white polyester pantsuit with thick, vertical, green stripes--a miniature zoot-suit, if you will--complete with a green coily keyring that attached to one of the belt loops, and could be pulled and stretched, for reasons I could not quite figure out. But I figured I could, at least, be entertained while wearing this monstrosity.

I reluctantly got dressed, repressing the urge to whine like I normally did when my mother made me wear something I didn't want to. My undying loyalty to my aunt and obligatory gratitude for the weeble-wobble treehouse forbade it. To whine or complain would be an unspeakable act of ingratitude. She was my favorite aunt, for crying out loud! How could I complain about something she claimed to have given me out of love?

I dreaded living out my day wearing that suit, so much that I began to plot my every move strategically. Let's see… sitting at my desk? Not too many worries--students were busy with schoolwork, and so was I. Lunch? Most of my body was hidden by the table. Recess? Ahhh, recess. That was what I needed to worry about. Where would I go during recess? If I ran around, more kids would see me. BUT maybe if I "accidentally" fell and tore my suit, I wouldn't be able to wear it again!

The thought of pain wiped that idea out of my head pretty quickly.

Recess came, and I had to think fast. My friends were approaching.

"You got new clothes?" they observed.

It was too late. They had noticed. I was mortified. I didn't know what to do.

So, I tried to distract my friends from the hideousness of what I was wearing by drawing their attention to the green coily keychain on my zoot-suit. I showed them how it could be stretched and pulled, and even detached from the suit altogether so that I could wear it on any belt-loop I wanted. It worked. They were intrigued. What can I say? We were five years old.

The day came and went, and surprisingly I escaped without any wisecracks or merciless teasing. Either that, or I was teased so much and so badly that I completely blocked it from my memory.

That was the only time I remember wearing that suit. I don't even know what ever became of it or why I never had to wear it again. I'm surprised my mother didn't save it along with the other weird commemorative garments she still keeps from my childhood.

I kind of want to believe that my mother knew. She understood what was going through my head. Or better yet, she read me like an open book--the same way she does to this day. She can sense the slightest note of disappointment in my voice, the inaudible beat of heartbreak in my walk. She knew then just like she knows now. She knew it was a God-awful, hideous suit. But she also knew that my aunt had the best of intentions, and that it's not always the gift; it's the thought that counts. And she knew that was something I needed to learn.