AA Gifts & Baskets Idea & Advice Blog

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 infant on a flat surface or across your lap so 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 candies, 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.

She pulled herself up sharply from her day-dreaming as Hilary Sadler crossed the forecourt ahead of her.  Today she was all in purple, a difficult color for most people, but Jenny admitted honestly and generously that Hilary really looked ravishing.  She was a nice person, good at her job, and even the men from the small streets near the great docks liked her, and were prepared to tell their little troubles to her.

With the Almoner was a tall, elegant woman in a coat that surely is mink.  Jenny didn’t know a great deal of furs, but that coat was a dream of a coat.  The rest of her clothes were black, and no other stoned but diamonds but diamonds could look quite like those in the ear studs that women wore.  But being Jenny, she also noticed that the woman looked absolutely torn apart with anxiety.  She was talking hard to Hilary, who had turned, and Jenny could see the Almoner’s usually vivid smiling face was now quite serious. Uneasy, Jenny thought.  AS she passed, Hilary was saying” Theirs is only St. Jude’s left Miss Jerrod.  And they really aren’t equipped for this.  For the child’s sake, won’t you bring yourself to reconsider?  This is a very nice hospital and very efficient. As Jenny passed, the woman’s clear carrying voice and perfect diction made it impossible for Jenny not to hear her reply.  “I’ve’ tried every avenue, every hospital so that Amanda won’t come to this one, but it seems that fate is driving me to letting her be admitted here!  There’s nothing left that I can do to prevent it!”

Jenny wondered what on earth could make that elegant, well-dressed woman so adverse to her child coming here.  As the Almoner said it was a very good hospital and if it was not the latest to be built with all the gleaming chromium and glass in evidence, Jenny felt that her hospital could still stand up to such new ones in sheer efficiency and quality of service.  And David Redmayne was the R.S.O…

A ship coming into the docks suddenly moaned out its warning, and all the little tugs fussily guiding it in chirruped their bright replies.  Perhaps, Jenny thought, Mrs. Jarrett didn’t want her child to be in a town like Shacklestock where, if only because of its great docks, there was necessarily a good sprinkling of patients of almost every country on earth, such as little Querina, the Arab girl whose father was a dock labourer, and Brigid, the Norwegian girl, and Mike who had just been discharged, and who was always telling them that his country used to be called the Gold Coast.  Jenny had agreed with him that those two words did sound much more romantic and swashbuckling than the new name.

People… children… so fascinating to Jenny and to David too.  They were never tired of discussing patients coming or going through the great gates of the hospital, to be swallowed up in a constant movement of that enormous red brick ant hill.  Its warmth enveloped her now, as she went in.  Bright and warm and busy, it was almost at home.  She could forget the biting win outside, which was too cold for snow, too cold for the White Christmas the children were looking forward to so much.  She turned her eyes away from the grey world outside, and gave her thoughts up to how she could fashion that crook for the shepherd, while she changed out of the new coat and her best dress and got onto her uniform.  Uniform that was also brown: by a coincidence, and one that never failed to amuse Jenny’s elder brother the uniform of the hospital was brown in all its facets.  Plain brown for the ward sisters, brown stripes and scarlet belts for the staff nurses, brown and yellow checks for the students, and “mud and clay” stripes, to quote Jim, for the P.T.S.  Jenny had two more years to go before she could qualify for a scarlet belt, and in the meantime she didn’t feel that the checks did much to acquire for her the glamour she was always yearning for her.

Mrs. Jarrett didn’t notice the nurses or their uniform as she went through the hospital to see again the man she prayed and would help her child to live.  She searched the faces of all the men.  There was one man she never wanted to see again, and she recently heard that he was in this very hospital, the one hope that now held any hope for her.  It wasn’t fair!

As she waited, she thought back over the recent year to the time she had taken her little girl on that ill-fated cruise when she became ill. How could one child on a luxury pleasure cruise contract an illness that would zap her life away?  Why, she asked herself if it had to be any child, why did it have to be hers, of all the children who had been on that ship?  Sunshine, and incredible blue sky, and blue sea, the white of paintwork and the white of the uniforms of everyone working on that boat were colours that lived with her, her whole memories of the trip.  She kept them in her minds eye so she could blot out Amanda’s face the first day she had been ill.  That clay colour the child’s skin color took could still make her shiver.  Remember the blue sky, but she couldn’t.  It was fading.  Too much grey and bitter weather here and Shacklestock was such a grey town.  Grey, uninviting, shabby and sinister, with its mean streets and its torn hoardings and its traffic.  What a place to bring one’s child, to be cured or…

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 (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, 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.

“No darling, there are masses of people in hospital at Christmas time.  The wards are full as at other times.”

“They are?” He couldn’t believe it.  She smiled at him and pushed the slight advantage she had gained.

“Well, it stands to reason doesn’t it?  Pain just doesn’t wait until after Christmas to come on, now do they?  Pains don’t’ know what season of the year it is, and you’ll always find if there’s fun or a party, or an outing or something nice, you’ll have pains and can’t enjoy the thing.  Pains never sensibly appear when there’s nothing jolly to do.”

He agreed with that too, but looked around curiously shattered/ didn’t understand why.  She decided not to ask, but to push her position she had gained.

Well, for all the people who had been unfortunate enough to be caught in hospital over Christmas and for the sake of the nurses and doctors who had to stay there over Christmas to look after the sick people. They had a lot of fun and decorations and nice food, just the same as if you are at home.

“I don’t believe it!” he exploded

“It’s true.  Its stands to reason-they want their fun too-and it’s nicer, I should think to have Christmas with dozens of other people with you to enjoy it!”

“How can they enjoy it if they’re ill?” he pointed out after some thought “Not ill, exactly, but on the way to being better only not quite fit enough to go home, if you see what I mean.  And some hospitals have television people come and film them so people at home can see the fun their having.”

Peter really couldn’t accept that “Now I know you’re making it up.”

“But I’m not, darling, truly I’m not.  We had it on last year, now didn’t we, only you didn’t watch the screen, you were too engrossed in you  new train set.”

That was a mistake, referring to the year before.  His father had come home on a flying visit. and had been lying flat on his stomach on the floor with Peter, playing with the train set too.  Peter’s lips trembled, but he sternly bit on them and said, “Oh, that! I saw it, but I thought it was a sort of play got up in the studio, not real at all.”

“Oh, Peter,” she said helplessly.  Other mothers didn’t seem to have this trouble.  The Jones children down the road had all been in hospital to have tonsils removed, and the young Marhams, one of whom was Peter’s age, had made no fuss at all when one had been run over and had a broken leg, and the other two had fallen out of a tree and had concussion and cracked ribs.  Their mothers had just phoned ambulances or called the doctor, and briskly gathered things together in cases in off they were bundled, and no questions asked.  But Peter had always seemed different.  A dreamer, not a boy to climb trees or get run over.  A boy who thought and planned, rather than blundered in and out of trouble.  A boy who preferred to read adventure books and dream of the time when he would go to the

Middle East like his father and work with the oil wells.

“I won’t go.” Peter said suddenly, in a rather frightingly final tone.  “Well, anyway, I won’t go for one week, until we give father a chance to come home.  Then we’ll see.”

She gasped.  “No Peter we can’t wait that long-“It was blurted out before she realized it.  All she could see was the grave face of the doctor at the Mary and Doctor Threadingham Memorial Hospital.  A big hospital, with a fine staff, but quite clearly they hadn’t liked this case and they wanted the boy in at once, before matters got any worse.

Peter misconstrued.  He stood up, still bent a little, and not removing one arm from his tummy.  “It’s like I thought.  You really don’t expect my father to come home, do you? Not ever.  I expect they know he’s dead already,” and his face puckered…

He turned sharply away.  She felt he had cut at her with a knife.  She took the blow, steadying herself, and then returned to the attack, because she must do this.  She was all alone now, and Edward would expect her to do it; reasonably, not clumsily and easily. He would expect her to put it to the boy so that he would go willingly and cheerfully, not just throw his things into a case and bundle him into a taxi ignoring the frozen grief and fear that would render him incapable of protesting even if he wanted to.  Edward had had a lot to say about the way some parents take their children to the new strange world of hospital.

She tried again.  “Darling, don’t say such things.  Listen, I love him you too, you know.  He belongs to me as well you.  He’s so dear to me-“

“Then why did you let him go out to that old desert to get lost and shot at when you knew all the time that there was fighting going on near?  I didn’t know there was fighting.  Nobody told me, or else or I’ve asked him not to go.  We’re not so hard up, are we, that father has to go to that place to earn his living?”

It was the worst reproach of all.  Hadn’t she begged Edward to apply to stay in

London at the main office until the trouble died down?  And hadn’t Edward just looked at her, and before saying quietly, “You know I can’t do that, Claire! His look had reproached her for putting to him the coward’s way out.

“People have to go to places like that dear, It wouldn’t do if everyone to stay home just there was a bit a trouble-we can’t run and hide until the nasty things stop, now can we?” He went to the bunks and sat done on the edge of the bottom one, thinking.  She flayed herself into saying some more.” Darling, I promise you it will be all right.  I’ll come and visit you every day-the mother’s do you know.  And the minute I hear from Daddy or about him, I’ll let you know.  If I can’t come at that moment to tell you, I’ll telephone the ward and the sister will come and give you the news,”

“She will?”  He couldn’t believe that.  “Why?”

“Because she’s kind, they’re all kind up on the wards.  Its fun, you’ll love it.”

“I didn’t see anyone kind when I went to the hospital to be poked and prodded by those men in white coats.  No fun, either.”

“That was only outpatients, darling.  They’re very busy and they have to get through their work in time to close the clinic for the day, but on the wards where people lie in beds and eat nice food and have fun, there’s plenty of time.  She swallowed.  “At this very minute, they’re all very hard at working making decorations to put up.  Did you know that?  And the night nurses put presents on everyone’s bed at Christmas time, and they have shows and lovely food-“

“They do?” He was still suspicious.

“Darling, actually it’s a proper Christmas hospital,” she said, making her last effort and deciding that if she must diverge from the truth it had better be a fine and splendid divergence, and completely convincing.  “Well look at the name of the place-that should prove it.  Do you know what they call it? 

The Joseph and

Mary

Hospital.  There, now!”

You always hear the stories of receiving gifts that were quite sweet in gesture, but really don’t fit into your lifestyle or tastes. This ranges from the Christmas tree sweater that glows in the dark to the poofy pink taffeta dress you might have worn when you were 7, but not at the age of 27. With every gift, you can always find something worthy to dwell on, even if it is a bit of humor wrapped with a bow.

My father often jokes with me about my affection towards a gift that comes from the Dollar Store. I must admit you can find various quirky additions to any holiday at this inexpensive chain of stores. When money was tight, it was this store that provided the decorations for my entire house and Christmas tree without giving a hint to the amount of money spent. It’s truly amazing what you will find at the Dollar Store, from cleaning supplies to candles to inexpensive alternatives for movie theater treats. Anyhow, for about five years running, my father would question where some of his gifts came from, making references to one of the cheapest places around promising the purchase of almost anything.

This has been a long running joke within my immediate family because I have a history of creating decorative, Dollar Store-themed baskets for the holidays. One year, for my brother, I stuffed his basket with anything to do with his cell phone. He was always losing his adapter to charge his phone, so I bought him two of them. I also included a set of earphones for the car, an extra cell phone case, even an extra battery. All of these items cost a dollar; all of which were used.

As for my father, he has received Dollar Store baskets pertaining to some of the items he often uses. One year, the theme was garden tools. He found delight in telling me how quickly the stem cutters broke when he went to trim a rose bush. The next year, he received a basket filled with cleaning and maintenance supplies for the car. You can never have too much oil, carburetor fluid or car wash supplies. The year after that, I packed a basket full of various tools, such as wrenches, screwdrivers and pliers. I don’t feel bad about these gifts because I know they will eventually get used. For my mother, a basket filled with scented lotions and soaps has brought a smile to her face. I really lucked out when a supply of Oil of Olay eye creams found their way to the Dollar Store.

I have always taken pride in never failing to give a gift on special occasions. It didn’t matter if I had to make a present with my own two hands, but I made sure my loved ones would be opening someone from me on their special day. Over the years, my budget has improved to the point where I no longer have to depend on the Dollar Store for the bulk of my gifts. What started as a way to cope with dreary financial circumstances has now become a welcomed family tradition. 

The word holiday has related but different meanings in English. It was originally a combination of the words holy and day. These days originally represented special religious days. The word holiday has changed to mean any special day of rest, not counting weekends.

The problem of course is that we don’t rest on the Holidays. We spend considerable time looking for gifts or preparing for vacation. Unfortunately, when we went to school they emphasized the Three “R’s”; namely

Reading, Rwriting and ‘Rithmatic. All that training to be diligent and to work hard started us thinking that we should be busy working hard all the time. Now they know better and in schools they emphasize the Four “R’s”; namely

Reading, ‘Rwriting’, ‘Rithmatic’ and my personal favorite ‘Recess’.

Educators now describes the ability to play as one of four signs of a child’s health and well-being, the other three are eating, sleeping, and toileting. At the same time parents, teachers, and health professionals report a steady decline in children’s ability to play. This appears to be the gift that we wee taught in school that we are passing along to our children. Psychologists say that 95% of children are creative. They also say that only 4% of adults are creative. Solving our day to day problems in a creative manner is absolutely critical in today’s high-tech, complex society. This is why time off is so important.

This is also where Holidays become essential. These special days recharge our batteries and let our minds roam freely to grasp solutions to the problems in our everyday lives. In the English-speaking world a holiday can actually mean a vacation or period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation. A holiday can also be a day set aside for celebration or a special day on which school and/or offices are closed, such as Labor Day. These holidays or ‘Days Off’ as we call them, are really important to our mental and physical wellbeing. The term ‘Playwork’ has been termed to describe the encouragement and risk assessment to give people on holidays the ability to play within the bounds of safety. This can include a relaxing walk in a park, a visit to a zoo, a museum, a musical event and other venues.

Sometimes just the gift of time off is all we need to rejuvenate or re-create ourselves. On other occasions we wish to not only re-create ourselves but entertain ourselves at the same time. On these special occasions, we want to participate in a celebration of the holiday. Some examples that come to mind would be Christmas and Easter. For some people who want more, they may make up a celebration of the holiday, (day off or not) like Halloween or summer solstice, or the start of vacation.

A favor or gift that you can give someone would be doing some ‘Playwork’ planning for them. You could suggest and plan a celebration or party in anticipation of an upcoming holiday. You may wish to make this an annual event so that the anticipation for your event can build from year to year.

Some examples might be: Queen Victoria Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day, Remembrance Day, Martin Luther King Day, Valentine’s Day, Mardi Gras, Purim, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Shavuot, Independence Day, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Ramadan, Halloween, Los Dias de los Muertos” (Days of the Dead), Thanksgiving Day, Chanukah, Christmas, and finally Kwanzaa.

Just pick any one day and create a special event or celebration to occur on that day. Gifts could be exchanged and special foods could be prepared or purchased to add a new feature to your unique celebration.