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 Janes from Saks Fifth Avenue. They were EXACTLY what I wanted.

Mintues later,  my mother found me in the closet and grabbed the shoebox away: that was exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

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 something of a cautionary tale around our apartment. If I try to get hints from Husband about my birthday or Mother’s Day gift
he says: "Pink shoes, pink shoes. Remember the pink shoes." Same for Son and Daugther when they ask about their Chrismakah or birthday presents: "Pink
shoes," we’ll say. "Pink shoes;"

And yet as a cautionary
tale, "Pink Shoes" just doesn’t cut it.  Instead, I still get 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 a terrible punishment for the delight
at finding the gift I so desired.

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

That said, I was really pissed when Daughter told me that she found the Felicity DVD I’d hidden in the laundry hamper. She also found a bunch of her stocking stuffers. "You’re just a terrible hider," she said. "You’re so bad at it."

That pissed me off even more. It’s not enough to give her gifts but I’ve got to be a great hider, too? Give me a break. Our closets are stuffed to bursting with clothing, coats and all the hand-me-downs we get from friends with older girls.

Finding a place in the apartment to hide gifts is, well, excruciatingly time consuming…

Pink Shoes. Pink Shoes. Doesn’t anyone remember the story about pink shoes?