When our sons were little, I liked to follow them around with an oversized VHS camera on my shoulder and film each and every breathtaking moment.
These days, on the rare occasions our Clinch clan is together, we like to sit and watch those old family movies.
Our all-but-grown sons chuckle at the shenanigans that occurred “way back in the day.” They watch with angst when they see themselves learning to ride a bike, they comment how I only videoed “the baby,” and they get motion sickness from my not-so-steady camera operation.
They are always greatly appalled at the way I used to dress them. Their socks were too short; their shorts too long; and they wonder out loud, “Why in the heck did you buy us zip-up sneakers?”
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
“You just clothed us in random shirts and didn’t care what team they represented?” Huey asked last Christmas as he looked at himself on the big-screen TV dressed in a Charlotte Hornets ensemble.
Those were the days. I could go to discount sales and purchase in bulk. Having four sons, I could start with Vernon and pass the clothing down the line until it got to poor little Charlie, in tatters, with little or no concern for his reputation. The Christmas that I purchased Vernon a faux leather jacket and found Lawrence a sports shirt for a team I did not know he despised, I was informed by our sons that my days of purchasing their clothing without prior written consent had come to an end.
Nowadays, with clothing as the only thing on the Christmas wish lists, my purchasing just isn’t the same. For the last several years, I have been shopping with four sons who all tower over 6 feet in height.
I stand in their midst as they scour the racks, dig through the piles and dis each other’s taste in clothing.
I was once the queen of Christmas shopping, the ruler of coupons — and I used to put my claws into being Santa. Now I am nothing short of a pack mule and a cash cow.
During our excursion this year, I hauled purchases to the car as our sons shopped. Once home, I dragged their selections into the house for wrapping — and then I stood and looked at the pile.
When our sons were little, more gifts meant more fun, and I wrapped with frenzy. One year I even went so far as to wrap their new pillowcases — and you can imagine their dismay, at 5 a.m. on Christmas morning, when they unwrapped them and realized it was bedding and not the video game they had so hoped for. The shame!
Yesterday, as I stood and stared at the task of the present wrapping that lay before me, I decided to simplify my life a bit.
Rather than wrapping their socks in Christmas paper and adorning it with a bow, complete with a tag that says, “Mommy loves!” I gathered up four large boxes.
I inserted their carefully selected jeans, along with their woven wools and their foot-specific socks. I simply wrapped those four boxes, placed them under the tree and then I put up my feet and patted myself on the back with a selfindulging, “Well done, my good woman. Well done!”
Most likely, there will be no surprises this Christmas morning, no exclamations of joy. But at least none of them will receive a Charlotte Hornets ensemble that I purchased from a sale rack for a mere $4.99.
I may even dig out my old VHS camera to commemorate the whole event.
Lori Clinch may be reached by sending an email to [email protected].