Yes and no, giving and taking lead to fun and frustration

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 01/02/12 edition of The Goshen News.  If Bethlehem is short one camel next year, don't look at me.  I had nothing to do with it.  Uh-huh.

It’s the gift that keeps on giving.  And taking and giving and…well, I’m sure you’re catching on. 

We hadn’t planned on getting it.  After all, we were still reeling from the impressive campaign they’d launched a year ago, the Christmas 2010 “Just Say Yes” initiative.  Using charts, graphs, and colorful PowerPoint presentations set to sad, sad music (think “Christmas Shoes”), they’d made their case. 

They’d made it well, and we’d said no.  And no and no and no.  Hoarse, we’d packed them into the van like sardines, only without the oil, and hauled them to Tennessee.  In the melee that followed with cousins upstairs, cousins downstairs, and several in the rafters, they’d forgotten about it.  Until this Thanksgiving when those cousins came over. 

The cousins had done the research.  Armed with flyers, they pointed and explained and nailed it down.  The deal of the century – nay, the millennium – would be found at Store ABC, go time 10 p.m.  At Store XYZ, controllers for The Very Big Deal were on sale, one day only, for a cool twenty bucks off.  Their parents had decided to spring for it, they said, with the understanding that this was their Christmas present, and it was meant to be shared. 

That may have been the day Mr. Schrock and I lost our minds.  For at long last, we relented, saying the one word that set them wriggling and squirming over the mashed potatoes.  And that’s how we ended up joining the rest of the common horde that night. 

I remember now why we avoid Black Friday.  Or Black Thanksgiving, as it turned out.  Not only were we late to the party, but we discovered, upon arrival, that 439 of our closest friends had come, too.  Which meant that the last Great Deal walked out of the store about three people ahead of us.  Then, since pepper spray, brass knuckles, pushing, and shoving weren’t in our arsenal, we crept home, exhausted, feeling like the turkeys we were. 

It was a nephew who saved the day.  Full of vim, vigor, and the Black Friday spirit, he was back out before daybreak, bagging two good-but-not-as-great-as-the-one-we-missed deals, one for them and one for us. 

And that’s where the giving and taking began.  The giving’s been the happiness, the excitement, and the hours of fun they’ve had already, those kids in their PJs, thumbs flying on controllers. 

The taking’s started, too.  As in Father taking those things away at 10 past enough, marching grimly down the stairs, one in each hand.  That’s how taking looks over here. 

In eavesdropping on their excited conversations amongst themselves, as well as multiple phone calls to the electronics department, it’s clear that the taking isn’t over, for “if you give a boy an Xbox, he’ll want games to go with it.”  And a hard drive the size of the War Department’s database.  And headsets.  And more controllers in case those 439 close friends I mentioned earlier, show up.  Oh, and a monthly subscription to Xbox Live so he can play online, real time, with his cousins. 

The upshot of the whole deal is that it’s turned out to be a powerful motivator.  Who knew that homework could be dispatched so quickly?  That two reluctant scholars who’ve made lollygagging an official Olympic sport could find a turbo button hidden on their persons? 

Who knew that one small game system could make kids jump through flaming hoops of fire?  That extra jobs would be finished at the speed of light?  That Mother, for once, could lay aside the notes for those barn-burner speeches, the ones that could make Zig Ziglar himself cry, “Yes, we can!” while grabbing a mop and a dishcloth? 

There’s been taking of a different kind, too.  As in the taking of fudge, two kinds, whipped up by The Mister.  As in the taking of cookies by hands of all sizes, slipping into cookies boxes on countertops and in freezers. 

Yup.  They’re back, that motley crew.  Rolled, cut, baked, and frosted in a mad rush, there they are.  A star.  A wreath.  A tree.  Santa’s boot.  A gingerbread man.  A cow.  A sheep (my favorite).  A teddy bear (Little’s favorite), and that infernal camel. 

“Not that one!” I exclaimed, remembering the legs that could burn like that, breaking off at the slightest touch. 

“We must have the camel,” they answered, and promptly set to making what appeared to be an entire family, down to aunts, uncles, and cousins.  As Little and his eight hands stamped out one of the 12 tribes (in teddy bears), I sighed, knowing how quickly these moments melt away and that someday, there’d be no misshapen bears cooling on the counter. 

Someday, there’ll be no dromedary, either.  I’ve put them on notice that there just may be a mysterious disappearance in Bethlehem next year with a certain camel and its gimpy leg going missing.  If they fuss, I’ll slip them each a controller for one hand and a fresh cookie for the other, and that’ll buy me some quiet time.  I think.