AA Gifts & Baskets Idea Blog

Archive for February, 2008

Infants and young children do not tolerate restraint for extended lengths of time, and since a cranky child can distract the driver, it’s wise to stop frequently, get out and stretch. Encourage toddlers to run around in a safe area, to play ball or tag. Place the infant on a flat surface or across your lap so he can kick for a few minutes. On commercial carriers, walk your toddler in the aisle, holding his hand to protect him in case of sudden lurches.

It is also wise to purchase the best commercial travel accommodations you can afford when young children are involved; the increased space provides greater freedom of movement and the service is usually better.

Keeping children content while confined in close-quarters is often a real challenge. Having an adult ride in the backseat of a car alongside a restrained child is a good idea. The child with adult companionship will be happier and less likely to demand a place on the front seat.

Take along your child’s favorite stuffed animal or blanket, a bag of small, soft plastic toys, or cloth books. Crayons and a coloring book, or a pad of paper will help keep an older child occupied. Avoid hard or pointed objects that could become dangerous in a moving vehicle.

Playing games helps to pass the time, for example, look for cows and trucks in magazines or along the side of the road. An occasional snack provides distraction and may alleviate motion sickness. Cookies and crackers may be a little messy, but they are preferable to lollipops, ice-pops, and hard candy gifts, which could prove dangerous.

If your trip is by car, limit your daily mileage to what your child can tolerate. It is always a good idea to end your driving by late afternoon. This prevents undue fatigue, ensures a night’s lodging for a tired and possibly cranky child, and provides the time for him to adjust to new surroundings before bedtime.

Your young child’s safety, comfort, and contentment helps to make any family trip an enriching experience. By using common sense to organize and plan ahead, what might have been a formidable task could be a pleasant interval in your daily routine.

It’s hard to think about writing a free-flowing letter when my life seems so programmed. Don’t misunderstand. It’s a good life, full of kids, work, husband, endless house renovations, dogs, cat, after-school activities, friends when they can fit in, and a whole lot of family with a whole lot of issues.

So I write this on a Wednesday eve, the oldest finally in bed and asleep after many minutes of wailing because she felt I’d yelled at her. “That’s how I feel,” she said when I commented that I had not yelled. How can you argue with someone’s feelings? The husband has retired to the bedroom to watch the baseball division playoffs, wondering but not counting on a little “nookie nookie” when I come to bed. That’s a constant and amusing subject-my sex drive. “Is it that you’re not interested?” my husband asks. “Is there anything that really turns you on,” he queries on a fairly regular basis?

It’s not that difficult to figure out why my sex drive isn’t at its height on a usual weeknight. It’s up at 6: 10 A.M.-press the snooze button two times for an additional ten minutes before going into overdrive for the next sixteen hours. Then it’s into the shower-let the hot, hot water run on my back, which is in constant ache mode since exercise was the first thing to hit the road when work and kids and everything else took over. Soon my husband and I share our constitutional morning bathroom dialogue-what’s on your agenda, can you pick up the kids, any meetings tonight? Then it’s what do I wear…

Child no. 1 arrives with a hole in his pajamas Superman pajamas-which he’s decided to wear to preschool today. Sorry, honey, I say, but the hole is right where your penis is and it really wouldn’t be good for you to go to school like that. “I’m gonna wear them anyway,” he replies. Before the final chapter of this story, there are plenty of negotiations. Child no. 2 has arisen. She’s in the other bathroom and says “go away” when I ask if she needs any help. Fine with me, I’m gone.

Found an outfit, don’t feel like making the bed, and just want to see if my husband will do more than simply pull up the sheets. Sheets pulled up-no complaints here. Not a good hair day. Oh, well. Breakfast, make lunches, and out the door by 7:30. One child to preschool, one to before-school care, and parents off to work. Work, work, work. Yes, we like it. It’s exhilarating, gives us mental stimulation, anxiety, satisfaction, and money.

At 5:00 P.M., pick up Child no. 1; 5:20 P.M., pick up Child no. 2; 5:45 P.M., home. Backyard dug up–drainage problem. Walk around the mud and hope the yard is seeded before winter. The dogs are ecstatic to see me and the kids. Jump on the kids and make them yell and cry. Into the house, change my clothes so the silk blouse can make it through one more workday before it hits the dry cleaner, and the kids settle in for a video. Dinner-what tonight? The homemade bean and beef soup was a hit for my hubby, a bomb for the kids. How about canned soup? Yes, canned soup it is. At 7:10, upstairs and bath time. The younger one wants to be dirty for the rest of his life dirty hair, long fingernails and toenails, the works. A minor struggle, but then into the tub. The older one is in heaven, hot water, ultimate relaxation and feeling good for a six-year-old. Bedtime around the corner after teeth brushing and pee time. Books for both kids and then…

It’s my time. Yes, there are the dishes, the bills, the phone calls I should make to my grandmother, mother, father, brother in Detroit, mother-in-law who’s making an effort to keep the barbs off the phone lines, and then a friend. God, how I love to go out with a friend and have some beers, or even better, champagne and cigarettes, and get one of those nice glows.

Full is my life. And it’s my choice. I’m not sure I thought the treadmill would be this fast, though there are days when the pace slows a bit. I know I’m not a stay-at-home mom. I’d be a loony tune. I love my managerial position, my hands in a pot that makes a difference in many people’s lives. Someday I’ll make the time to lie in the sun, plant a small garden and weed it often enough to differentiate the plants from the weeds, ride my bike to nowhere with my husband, and find a rolling hill to lie on and just stare at the clouds rolling by.Would I trade my life for another? No. Do I check myself at least once a week to make sure the stress level remains manageable? Yes. And so, as I feel like Superwoman and enjoy the comments others make acknowledging that I juggle a lot, I do have that inner peace of happiness.

My Dad always said to us that he didn’t need any gifts. He told us that he was the man who had everything! What a lovely thought considering he had 5 stepchildren, and a new born baby gift (me) to provide for.

He was an Abalone diver by profession, this particular year his boat had been tipped over by a shark. My father’s boat had been ruined, and he was lucky to have escaped with his life. My father was left with no boat and no income. He had begun working as a deck hand for a friend who was also an Abalone diver. Mom and Dad made some extra money by selling abalone shells as ashtrays to tourists, to buy Christmas presents for all of us kids.

Times were tough and we ate a lot of fish. Although through this ordeal, our Dad remained cheerful and never once let it get to him. His usual saying about being the man, who had everything, was said at Christmas time. When his stepchildren tried to glean some type of hint on what he might like for Christmas. My stepsister who was well accustomed to hearing this, set out to find the perfect gift for the man who had everything!

This could not have been a very easy task, considering her budget was below $2. She never mentioned another thing about finding a gift idea, and wouldn’t tell anyone even our Mom what she had found. No matter how hard they all begged.

Christmas morning finally rolled around, and everyone was exchanging gifts. When it was my stepsister’s turn to give her gift to Dad she produced a small longish rectangular box, rapped in red paper. My father carefully tore away the paper to reveal a black box with gold writing on the top, it said “For the man who has everything” when my father opened the lid there was a little brush in there, a lot like a makeup brush only smaller. Inside the top of the lid it said, “for the man who has everything, a belly button brush.”

My stepsister not only found a unique gift for our Dad, but she also managed to make light of a hard time. Gifts don’t have to be large or expensive to make an impact on others. My parents still to this day talk about the belly button brush, for the man who has everything. It is displayed on their mantelpiece with pride, still to this day, this occurred over 25 years ago.

If you know a man who has ‘everything’ ask him if he has a belly button brush. After that Christmas my father really was the man who had everything.

By making a last will and testament, you are getting the final word on who gets what part of your estate, and, more importantly, who will care for your child when you are gone. Though a will is a valuable document, people often procrastinate about putting one together. It’s easy to put off making a will because it isn’t a pleasant pursuit for most people. But for parents, a will is, at the least, peace of mind insurance.

A common misconception about wills is that they’re only for wealthy people. Because jointly owned real estate, bank accounts, life insurance benefits, and pension proceeds are typically not covered under a will; many people believe that a will is not necessary if they don’t have extensive personal property. But from a parent’s point of view, the most important aspect of a will is the designation of a guardian in the event both parents die at the same time. Maybe you don’t really care how your personal property is divided up, but you do care about how your child is reared.

Therefore, discussions about the person or persons best suited to raise your child, is important. Do you want someone who knows your child well, who has similar values and religious beliefs? Take into consideration the age of the potential guardians and their interest in taking on responsibility of a child. This is important; if they feel they wouldn’t be good parent substitutes, consider someone else. It is imperative to discuss everything with the guardians you have in mind.

Another question is guardian of the person versus guardian of the property. The person who will watch over your child does not necessarily have to be the one who will take care of your financial needs. Of course, one person can do both, but if you have a relative who you feel would be a wonderful substitute for you and your spouse, but not equipped to manage the child’s property, you can name both a guardian for the person and one for the property.

You will also have to name an executor [male] or executrix [female] of your will. That person is responsible for gathering together your assets, pay any outstanding bills, paying the death taxes, and then distributing whatever assets remain, according to the specifications of the will. Your executor can be a relative, friend, attorney, or an institution such as a bank or a trust company. Some people choose an individual and an institution, in order to have the personal approach of a trusted friend and the knowledge of an organization. Either way, trustworthiness, reliability, and organization are attributes your executor should possess.

Although state laws vary, some common principles apply regardless of where you live. Though there’s no law that says you must have a lawyer draw up your will, if you want to make sure you have a valid will, hire a competent attorney who is familiar with state law and, to some degree with applicable federal and state estate tax laws.

The written document prepared by your lawyer must be signed by you in the presence of two [or sometimes three] witnesses, although many states allow you to verbally state to the witnesses that you have previously signed the will. The witnesses should not be persons who are beneficiaries under the will.

Two of the most important requirements in making your will valid are that you tell the witnesses the document they are signing is in fact your will [not just some random legal document] and that each witness sign the will at your specific request. This may sound quirky, but the failure to observe these requirements has led to the invalidation of many wills.

The original will should be kept in a safe place, but not in a safe-deposit box, since these are often sealed upon notice of death.Your planning will go a long way toward creating a happy and successful future for your children. But don’t fall so in love with your plans that you never review or change them. Remember to be flexible; if your financial outlook has changed, perhaps some of your plans should change as well.

Since the dawn of time people have been giving gifts. People in early civilizations gave gifts to their tribal leaders and each other to show loyalty and love. They used bark and wood from the trees, and reeds to fashion unique objects as gifts. Gift giving has always been reciprocal, except for the heads of state in various cultures. They received gifts in order to procure favor and to demonstrate allegiance, a practice still in place today.

The Bible highlights many examples of gift giving. The three wise men brought gifts to the Holy Child. Mary Magdalene washed Jesus’ feet with precious oil as a gift. We are told that if we have a gift to leave at the altar and have a grievance with our brother, that we should resolve the wrong before we give the present.

There are many worldwide gift traditions. In Egypt, idols and pyramids were built to honor the pharaohs. In the medieval age, gifts were given to kings to gain personal favor or allegiance in a war. Most of those gifts were silver and gold and jewels: chalices, medallions, statues, and other articles. Gifts were also given to a beloved one or used as dowries for betrothals, which could include a herd of animals, or precious metals and jewelry.

Today we give gifts for a myriad of reasons. Presents are given at cultural religious occasions and seasons. We give gifts for birthdays, holidays, farewells, good luck, to show love, to say thank you, to welcome, and “just because”. We give presents to family members, friends, co-workers, and neighbors. Our selection of gifts may include jewelry, gift baskets, toys, clothes, gift certificates, and flowers and plants.

Sometimes a gift is intangible. Children give their parents coupons for yard cleanup, dish washing, cleaning the house and other chores they might not ordinarily perform. We give time to our family, friends, and neighbors when they need help. Volunteers donate their energy to various charitable organizations.

Every so often, we give a present only because it is time to give a gift to someone. Sometimes we don’t even want to give a gift, but feel obligated to do so. We struggle over picking out a present that will be appropriate for the occasion. Instead of being a wonderful opportunity to show someone that we care, it becomes a difficult task. Hopefully, no one has this experience very often, if ever.

Receiving a gift is part of the gift-giving process. Giving a gift makes the giver feel good. Making someone else’s life richer rewards the giver with a feeling of achievement and caring, especially if the recipient shows gratitude and appreciation. Many times, this is why we wish to be the gift giver rather than the recipient, but receiving is important in this reciprocal practice of gift giving.

He stared at her, and then suddenly bent double. This was a much worse pain than any so far.

She was helpless. Nothing in the world could do to relieve it, except to get him into that hospital. She clutched him to her, hardly noticing what she was doing, and smoothed his hair. Edward, Edward, help me, her heart cried. Edward where are you? And like her son, in that moment, she felt despair settle so heavily on her and she was sure that her husband was no longer there to help her.

Suddenly the boy straightened up. “All right, it’s gone. It wasn’t too bad,” he lied, and even managed a faint watery grin. “Pack my bags then, and let’s go.”

She felt dizzy with relief. Whether she had capitulated before the force of her arguments, or whether it was the chastising warning of that last pain, she couldn’t say. She didn’t stop to think.

He watched her lug a case out from one of the cupboards and starts to put his things in, not so quickly or neatly as he had seen her pack for summer holidays, but she didn’t make bad speed.

“Shall I put some books in for you to read, Peter? Which would you like to take?” and she ran her eye over the brilliant backs of the covers. Adventure in the desert, the jungle, the town, and the country; adventures on the sea, below the sea, up mountains, in planes. War books and animal adventures. His world, from the escape from the safety and security of the room.

He surprised her again; cold, sharp, surprise settled on her.” I don’t want any. I don’t want them anymore. Throw them out. No, burn them-don’t give them away. I don’t want other boys to-“

He broke off and turned his head away.

“But, Peter, you’ve always liked adventure books.”

“They’re not true. There silly. The only people who get killed in them are the “bads”-“goods” in those books all get through their adventure and come home and tell their families all about it. My father wasn’t a “bad”. But he didn’t come home.”

She finished the packing in silence and went done to phone the hospital and to tell her daily woman what was going on. Mrs. Walters pointedly removed the cigarette from her mouth and dropped ash on the floor and just listened.

“In hospitable? Poor little soul.”

“Don’t talk like that Mrs., Walters, he might hear you. I’ve had such a trouble to persuade him, but he’s agreed to go quietly, and get it over with, and I think it’s the best thing. He had a very bad pain this morning.”

Mrs. Walters clucked sympathetically and put the cigarette back in her mouth. “Well. What I say is, I do admire you, and the you’re taking it, Mrs. Farley. If it were my boy, I’d be off with my head with worry, not knowing if I’d ever see him again...”

“Of course, I’ll see him again,” Claire said crossly, but it wasn’t any use arguing with Mrs. Walters. She did keep the place clean, but she firmly believed that her ideas were right and everyone else was staggeringly wrong. Claire left her and want upstairs to ready.

The Milkman came. Peter went to the window and looked down. He hadn’t gotten his horse anymore which Peter thought was a pity. The milk float was a mistake. It whirled miserably, and it was so slow that the other traffic on the road made all the usual noises of frustration until it could be overtaken. No one likes the milk floats.

But it reminded Peter of the holidays when the milkman had brought his boy round to collect the empties. The boy had been a year older than Peter, and had boasted about his visit to the hospital to have his verracus burnt off. More pain than torture in the Middle Ages, the milkman’s boy had said firmly. Peter decided that it might be a good idea to dust go down and have a word with the boy’s father just to check [without disbelieving his mother’s story, of course but she was the sort of pretty, distracted-looking young woman who often get things wrong.] If that hospital was a Christmas hospital and whether it was likely that they’d have fun there, which he personally which he could never bring to believe.

He crept downstairs. The pain had eased up a lot. He didn’t waste time worrying about why it should do that, but began to plan his verbal opening. The Milkman liked to joke and tease. He would start off by getting in quickly. “Hello, hello, hello, here’s a young gentleman with a posh speech on his tongue to make, I can tell at a glance!” the milkman was fond of saying when Peter was about, and it was irritating. Peter knew he must start talking first. Should he ask bluntly: “Is the Joseph and Mary really a Christmas Hospital?” but come to think of it sounded silly. The Joseph and Mary began to carry weight on its own; the sound about it that is at once suggestive. It might perhaps be better to find out if it was really called that, or if someone else told his mother the wrong thing.

The milkman was being quiet for once, Peter discovered. Mrs. Walters was doing all the talking “Stood out against going into the hospital all this time he has, poor little devil, but his mother’s got him to agree at last.”

“Yes, well-“the milkman said, hoping to bring in the story about his boy and the verracus.

Mrs. Walter’s wasn’t going to have that. “What I say is, shall we ever see him again? Not a bad kid, that one. I said as much to his mother. If it was me, I said I’d be asking my self if he’d ever come out again. Well I mean to say-hospitals are all alike. Once they get you in, you never come out. Look at my Perce-“

Pierce Walters was a tall thin, weedy man who came to do the odd jobs. He had been by way of being a hero to Peter, because he had the bare minimum of tools which he treasured, and he kept them in a shabby old bag he carried as if it contained gold. Out of the most unlikely bits of wood and rubbish, that no one else wanted, Mrs.’s Walter’s late Husband, had fashioned things, slowly with a care that had been born of waning energy, but the little boy hadn’t known this. He hadn’t known that Percy Walters’ days had been numbered then. He only knew that he had liked him and that he had been persuaded to go into the hospital and had never came out.

He didn’t stop to hear of the other similar cases.

Mrs. Walters had known and was loudly citing for the milkman’s benefit, nor that would he have realized that they had been hopeless cases from the state. He only knew that Mrs. Walters was saying roundly that he would never come back to this dear house again, never see his father when he came home…if his father ever came home. And Mrs. Walters was speaking in that loud, confident, ringing tone of one who was sure of her facts.

He turned to go upstairs again, but the pain came on again and this time he went grey with it. His Mother came down and at the same time heard the taxi pull up at the door.

“Are you ready, darling? Do you think that you could help let you get ready? We really ought to be getting going.”

He looked at her, his faced pinched and grey and somehow much older. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” He asked of her, and to her fevered imagination, it was the voice of Edward, lighter weight, of course, but the same tone, the same choice of words.

“Why do you say that darling? I thought we agreed that it was for the best,” his Mother cried. Her distress communicated itself to him and he believed he was lost, and that she knew he was lost, but there was nothing else she could do.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said and he let her help him. Wrapped in a grim frozen silence borne of grief and despair, a quiet, nagging fear that was worse than the noisy terror of a normal frightened child. Peter Farely allowed himself be conveyed to the Christmas Hospital.