My daughter’s birthday is on Saturday. And you can just imagine the anticipation pulsing through her little body. Yesterday she told me, after I promised not to get mad at her, that she sneaked a peek inside my closet and saw a big American Girl Doll shopping bag. I didn’t get mad at her. I know how hard it is to resist spying on one’s gifts.

And my daughter knows well my sad childhood story. Just days before Christmas when I was 8 or 9, I stood on a chair in a coat closet and found one of my Christmas presents: a pair of pink patent leather Mary Jane from Saks Fifth Avenue. They were EXACTLY what I wanted. A few minutes later, my mother found me in the closet, grabbed the shoes away from me and reprimanded me.

On Christmas Day, there were no pink shoes. None. My parents did, however, give me the shoes a few days later.

Lesson learned.

That story has become a cautionary tale around our house. If I try to get hints from my husband  about my birthday or Mother’s Day gifts he says: "Pink shoes, pink shoes. Remember the pink shoes." Same for my son and daughter. "Pink shoes," we say. "Pink shoes."

And yet as a cautionary tale, "Pink Shoes" just doesn’t hold water.
Instead, it makes me angry at my parents who felt they had to punish me for something so innocent, so human. "Pink Shoes" is not
a cautionary tale at all but a poignant reminder of my terrible
punishment for the delight of finding the gift I so desired.

Shiny,
pink, glowing with potential: it was impossible not to hold those shoes
in my admiring hands. Even if it was just days before Christmas.

I was  a little surprised that OSFO peeked at the big, red American Girl Doll shopping bag. But really not that surprised at all.

Yours from Brooklyn,
OTBKB

P.S. She saw the bag but not the gift inside. I think. Phew.