The joy of gifts

I hate buying my mother gifts. Actually, after the most recent Christmas, I gave up on them.

The only gift she’s ever seem particularly attached to is a keyring I bought her back when I was around 10. It reads:

NOBODY IS PERFECT. EXCEPT ME.

About thirty years later, I would read a book that would explain she truly believes that.

Over the years, here are some of the gifts I’ve bought her and the reasons why they were wrong:

“I want slippers!”

I bought memory foam slippers, with Velcro straps, because she’s very clumsy, and will trip over because she’s not paying attention. Also, I know that she hates slippers with no sides and/or backs.

“I can’t wear these. I have high arches. Everyone knows that.”

**

“I want a radio!”

I bought a fantastic-looking 50s style radio – all mod cons, but the aesthetic was one of those gorgeous retro radios you see in period pieces and diners. It had a nice solid base, so it wouldn’t fall over if she brushed against it. Since she was a teen in the 50s, I thought this was a cute idea.

I didn’t actually get to give it to her, because before I could leave the house to bring it to her, she called me to say, “Can you bring the receipt with you, so I can return it?”

**

“I want a watch!”

I bought something almost identical to her current watch. Black leather strap. Big white face. Clear numbers. Clear hands. Easy to read.

“I wanted a wind up one.” – which is weird, because she has arthritis in her fingers, and she’s literally never not had a battery watch.

**

All other gifts were met with vague disinterest and an “ehn” sound. You know, to acknowledge that she can see the item in front of her, and it hasn’t offended her.

Meanwhile, her gifts to me were completely absent. One year she absolutely resolutely refused to say happy birthday to me. She insisted that Raven and I come over to visit, and was quite peeved we wouldn’t come on the specific date – but she referred to it as “the twenty-ninth” rather than “Dove’s birthday”. So we did. No mention of my birthday. We went out to lunch, no mention of her paying as a birthday treat, so we paid.

Raven turned it into a game. He took me to a side, and said that this was peeving him quite strongly, and he would like to poke her, but he wouldn’t if I didn’t want him to. Since my husband has oodles of restraint and can let almost anything go, I was delighted to see him riled. I gave him carte blanche to do anything he wanted.

He spent the entire day turning everything she said into a comment on my birthday, no matter how inane.

Her: I need to go to the bank on Tuesday.

Raven: Tuesday was three days before Dove’s birthday!

Her: Of course, the parking’s a nightmare.

Raven: Yes, the parking was awful when we drove into town to get lunch on Dove’s birthday.

Her: I suppose I could use the Merry Hill car park, but it is a longer walk.

Raven: Yep, we parked closer to the shops on Dove’s birthday, and the traffic was bad. But it was Dove’s birthday, so we had a lovely time. On Dove’s birthday.

You get the point. He absolutely hammered the point, and she seemed completely oblivious.

Several weeks after that event, she called to explain that she had deliberately not acknowledged my birthday because she’d given Raven a car a few months ago, and to expect her to say happy birthday was a step too far on her generosity.

Let me clarify “gave him a car”. She bought a new car, and would’ve got about £100 off it if she’d exchanged her old car. This offended her because she paid a lot more than £100 for it, but it had several issues that needed fixing, and she didn’t want to fix them to get more money. And Nparents do like to love-bomb. And, yeah, maybe she did want to do a nice thing. I honestly don’t know at this point.

Edit from about six months after I posted this: It wasn’t a nice thing. Apparently she moaned about the car (how little she would get in part-exchange) so much that her sister said, “Why don’t you give it to your daughter?” And Mother pointed out that I wasn’t a child and didn’t need gifts. Aunt said that your children are your children even when they’re adults, then listed all the nice thing she does for her kids. And Mother bitched and moaned and eventually gave in. So basically, she was shamed into action when Aunt pointed out that she still cares for her kids, even though they’re in their 40s-50s.

I really feel like she has no emotions at all, so now I just see it as a move, not a gift.

So she gave it to Raven, who paid to get it fixed, and it was a good car. Old, but very low mileage.

But would it have killed her to wish me a happy birthday?

She never forgets Raven’s birthday, and sometime she even sends anniversary cards, but with mine, she forgets or says “the card’s in the post”. She got me a birthday card with high heeled shoes all over it one year. I’m mobility impaired. I walk with a walking stick. I’m a Crocs person. I have no idea what she was thinking there.

She phoned me on my birthday this year to complain that she’d lost her cheque book, and that she was having to go to the bank to get a new one, and then went into excruciating detail of her last shopping trip, and the exact path she took and places she might have lost it. I didn’t even bother to point out that… does anywhere even accept cheques any more?

Anyway, the card’s in the post, and a cheque will follow. Neither materialised.

I wasn’t surprised, because now we’re getting to Christmas, and the exact moment I gave up on gifts for her without a hint of regret.

I bought her: a knee-length thermal dressing gown (knee-length because she’s short, thermal because she feels the cold); a pair of slippers designed for people with high arches; a soft fluffy blanket she can throw over her while watching TV. I wrapped these things beautifully and handed them over.

She stared at me in utter bafflement. And, y’know, fair. She insisted we came over for Christmas, and we said no, Boxing Day, because Christmas Day is too nice to be wasted on her moods. She had not decorated. She had not wished us a happy Christmas. In fact, she greeted us with the words, “Wasn’t it terrible about that little girl that got raped?” So maybe she had no idea it was Christmas.

Edit from about six months after this post: Um. Yeah. She might not have known it was Christmas. About 15 months after this event, Mother was diagnosed with dementia. It could have been going on years, but we’re so used to her bullshit and “forgetting” or getting all vague if she’s not interested in the conversation, or just walking out of the room while we’re mid-sentence, that all of those dementia flags were lost under the narcissim.

After a moment of processing, she leaned over me and reached into the cupboard beside me. She pulled out a mug that read “Happy Birthday, Mum”, a box of her favourite chocolates, and a half box of Quality Street that she’d been clearly enjoying throughout December. She handed them to me.

In case the mug didn’t tip you off, she just regifted the items I gave her for her birthday in November. I left the mug behind. I hate those chocolates. They’re the horrible shell-shaped ones that are expensive and taste like bile. I bought them for her because she likes them.

Then she asked for the receipts on her gifts, because the dressing gown was too long and the slippers were the wrong size. I didn’t see her try them on.

“Why not,” Raven commented in a low voice, “just wait until summer and give them to Dove for her birthday?”

So I’m fucking done with gifts. I don’t care what she expects.