Haven't You Always Wanted a Monkey?

Sign on a church on the way to A's school: "Happy 48th Birthday, Messiah!" I'm trying to think of a funny comeback but the only thing I could think was that it would be funny if I was driving with one of my Jewish friends and they said, "Wait a minute, didn't your Messiah die at 33?" That would've been funny.

Big Sister and Big Niece along with Grand-Nephew Who's 1 Year Old This Week are coming into town today. I got on the computer to see when they were arriving and half an hour later, I still don't know and I still need a shower. So, see ya later.

A Star in Our Midst

Here's A. dressed up, he reports, as "A Famous Movie Star."

I'm guessing the star is in costume here, perhaps as a donut-machine repairman.

After I took the picture, he asked, "But did you get the bracelet? Are you sure you got the bracelet?"

The accessories do make the outfit.











And, just to share the cuteness....

Hold On To Your Ball

Middle Sister (and her DH) is in a local production of Footloose, which I went to with my Dad last week. I discovered that the line I always sang as, "Now take ahold and pull..." is actually "Now take ahold of your soul..."

However, I 'm not sure what's really correct, because when I looked up the lyrics, every result on the first page of the blingo results reported the line to be "Now take ahold of your ball...." I think taking ahold and pulling makes more sense than that.

It also appears that while I was singing "C'mon the four-ring track," Kenny Loggins was singing "C'mon before we crack." Ah.

And is it, "Oh, Milo..." or "Oh, My Lord..."?

Why I Scrapbook

I get some flack for my scrapbooking obsession. I’ve almost always got my camera with me and I scrap almost everything that happens. If I don’t scrap it, I blog it. Documenting our lives is a priority for me.

My dad was here for a couple days this week. He’s in his mid-80’s. You know how some older people tell lots of stories, over and over? He’s not one of them. I asked him lots of leading questions and got pretty much one-word answers back. He’s not rude or unfriendly, he just doesn’t seem to have much to say.

Ignoring my arm-waving and silent “NO!”, G. tried to get him to talk by asking him what I was like as a little girl. My dad told him that I did lots of singing and dancing as a kid, and that as the dance teacher’s pet, I would go up on the stage at age four and sing “Shantytown” in front of a whole audience.

G. was, understandably, shocked to hear this. “Really?”

I shook my head. “Dad, that wasn’t me. That was Middle Sister,” I reminded him. Middle Sister and I are 12 years apart, so we’re talking whole different decades here.

“Really? I thought that was you.” He said he didn’t remember anything else. Since he was obviously impressed with Middle Sister’s childhood performances, I’ll probably just let him go ahead and think it was me next time. What the hell. He was gone much of my childhood, and was of the generation that provided for their families and left the child-rearing to the women, anyway, so it’s kind of remarkable that he has a memory in there somewhere of any of his children. I’ll take what I can get, even if it’s not about me.



While he was here, my dad was looking at my scrapbooks, and saw one about my head injury. “Brain injury? When did this happen?”

“Just last February. You remember – I fell, hit my head and ended up in the hospital. Almost needed brain surgery.”

“I didn’t know about that!”

“Yes, you did. Oldest Sister told you and you called me in the hospital. You asked if I needed anything.”

He narrowed his eyes as he searched in the archives of his brain, and finally shook his head. “Nope, don’t remember a thing about it.”



The last morning he was here, I asked him what my mom was like when she was a young woman. “Oh, just a typical college co-ed, I guess.” I waited, but that was all he had to say.



My mom died when I was 21, and we had what could charitably be called a complicated relationship, or uncharitably I suppose I could just say that she was crazy.
The few times that she and I managed to communicate with each other, the subjects of my childhood and what kind of little kid I was did not come up. My sister told me recently that she thinks my mom might have had PPD after I was born: “I don’t know; I just remember having to take care of you a lot.” At 19 years old, I’m sure taking care of her infant sister wasn’t exactly what she wanted to be doing, although she’s always been very nice about it.

So I never had very much information about my childhood, and in the last few days I realized that now I’ll never have it. I don’t know what my favorite toys were. I don’t know what I liked to do or what my favorite foods were. I don’t know what my first word was, when I got teeth or when I walked. I don’t know what kinds of activities I enjoyed. I know almost nothing about myself or my life before the age of six. My sisters were 12 and 19 when I was born, and they remember some stuff, but didn’t realize it was up to them to keep a baby book for me.

G.’s parents, on the other hand, are younger (and alive, which helps) and still know all that information. I know he walked at 16 months and his first sentence was, “There’s no pickle in there,” complaining about his tuna sandwich. He was a great sleeper and slept so much that his mother worried. He was shy but polite (except, I guess, if you made his tuna wrong).

Anyway, that’s why I scrapbook. As teenagers, my boys will probably roll their eyes at the albums upon albums filled with their childhoods, but no matter what happens to me, the stories will be available to them, and they’ll never think I wasn’t paying attention.

Birth of a Soccer Mom

When I told A. that I’d signed him up for soccer, he said, “But I can’t run as fast as the other kids.” Broke my heart. Four years old and he’s already feeling inferior. I know that feeling. I signed him up for a Kidz Love Soccer session because it’s supposed to be noncompetitive and I thought that would be a good way to start out.

Last week I was so nervous. To give some history, I was a very small kid and that equaled “unathletic” to everyone else. This was in the good ol’ sadistic days when the coach would pick two students who then took turns picking teams. I wasn’t always the last, but I was usually pretty close. I also had very bad allergies and was kept inside from March to June, so I never learned team sports. I really wanted to be a tomboy because it seemed they got all the good storylines on TV, but it was hard when I couldn’t go outside.

Anyway, I bought into the whole thing and firmly believed I sucked at sports. But really, I wished I had the confidence to join a pick-up softball game. I played intramural softball in college and I can’t tell you the courage it took for me to not fake an ankle injury and sit every game out.

I didn’t want that for A. He’s small for his age (4.8 percentile! Way to get back on the chart, buddy!). I encouraged him onto the field and told him to have fun. He’s not very daring physically, so I was afraid he’d be intimidated or worse, bullied by bigger kids. G. and I are continually amazed at our outgoing children, though. He ran out there and got in line without hesitating. He listened to a little girl tell the coach about her boo-boo, so he raised his hand and informed the coach that he had a cold. The coach expressed his sympathies appropriately. The coach has shaggy hair that hangs halfway down his face and a goatee and a certification from Kidz Love Soccer that he knows how to teach in a “nurturing” way.

These are 3-4 year-olds, so the range of attention varies greatly. A. is one of the quicker ones, so he picked up the directions quickly, which gave him some confidence. They played tail tag, where each kid sticks a jersey (what do you call those vest things players wear over their clothes to designate teams in scrimmage?) in their shorts and then run around trying to get each others’ tails. The assistant coach was careful to point out that hanging on to your tail if someone grabs it is not allowed. If someone grabs it, you let them have it.

So A. ran around, grabbed people’s tails, giggling the whole time. But here’s the part that made my eyes well up: a couple bratty girls (i.e. cheaters) hung on to their tails and wouldn’t let him take it if he grabbed it. He looked at them like, OK, whatever, and turned right around and went after someone else without taking a second glance. He didn’t cry, he didn’t fight them, he didn’t cry foul and most importantly, he didn’t give up. He just kept on going, giggling and trying other tails. God, I was proud of him.

Tonight they played tail tag again, and if I do say so myself, he was one of the most successful. Now, this group includes several kids who didn’t get the game and just stood there, so it’s not like he had a whole lot of competition. Still, I was so proud of him for getting in there and playing instead of hanging around the edge.

They also played firefighters, where they ran around kicking the ball to knock over orange cones. He did fine at that, too. He’s not the biggest or the best, but he’s right there in the middle and I can tell he’s so excited to be successful.

Tonight he came off the field at the end of the lesson, accepted a hug and my profound admiration, a sip of water, and headed back onto the completely empty field.

“Honey, where are you going?”

“I’m going to play soccer.”

“Dude, it’s over. Time to go home!”

(looking horrified) “No! It’s not!”

“Yeah, honey, it is. Ask the coach.”

So he trots over to Hippie Coach and asks, “Can I play soccer?”

Hippie Coach of course thinks he’s looking for reassurance and gives him a cheery, “Sure! You can play soccer!” I say, “No no no no…he’s asking if it’s all over….tell him you’ll see him next week”

Hippie Coach looks at me like, “Hey, I just need to get home.”

A. trots back onto the field.

“Honey, seriously. It’s over. Look around. Everyone else is going home.”

Then he gets that look…that look that means his head is about to explode. His face gets super red, tears start flowing and yep, here come the wails. He was sooo upset

Poor guy. He’s just so excited about doing something physical well. Or if not well, just not horribly. I cannot tell you how proud I am.

Brain Drain

Lots of stuff to talk about, but no real brain cells to dedicate to making a coherent post. So I'll give the highlights and continue to work on the coherency.

1. One of my layouts is getting published in Simple Scrapbooks' Digital Scrapbooking #6. I'd decided I wasn't going to submit anymore (not that I did that much anyway) because getting rejected takes some of the fun out of it. I had some digital layouts I liked so I sent them in, and one's getting published. It'll be out in mid-December, I think.

2. A. had his first tot soccer-lesson on Tuesday, and he was absolutely average. It was wonderful. I was so proud I thought I'd burst. He loved it and didn't want it to end. Writing about why that was so fantastic is a post I'm working on.

3. The birthday party went well. Painting the wooden cars was a hit, and there was a ton of food left over. I always have too much food. A. had a great time.

4. He is finally sleeping in his big-boy bed. He loved his crib, so we let him sleep in it for a really long time. We bought a new mattress last week and it sat in the extra room for several days before A. agreed to sleep in it. He did well last night, but tonight was tough because he napped this afternoon and didn't fall asleep until about 10pm.

"Mama, I have to tell you something. What are you watching on TV?"
"Mama, it's too dark in there."
"Mama, I heard something and it wasn't my book."
"Mama, Ben cried a little bit."
"Mama, it's kind of scary in there."
"Mama, how can I do this? How can I fall asleep?"

I believe he is finally asleep. Ben moved into A.'s room (the "nursery") but refuses to sleep in the crib and was REALLY pissed off when I put him in there, so we moved the pack 'n play in there. Maybe once he's used to the room, he'll sleep in the crib.

5. Ben is in the toddler stage of throwing everything in the garbage. So far he's tried to trash his father's socks, both his cup of milk and A.'s, and several train engines. And that's just the stuff we caught.

Remembering

What really got to me in the days following 9/11/01 was the footage of families carrying around posters of their lost loved ones, hoping someone would recognize the face and give them good news. You knew the families had poured over familiar photographs of their missing person, picking not necessarily their favorite photo, but the one that stood the best chance of being recognized.

"Which one looks most like George? No, he's not usually that dressed up. Use this one - where he's in his work clothes." The anguish on the faces of these ordinary people always made me cry even when I thought I was numb. Each one of these people had a family, loved and was loved by someone.

Project 2996 assigned bloggers individual victims of 9/11 and each blogger, including Middle Sister, researched their person and wrote a tribute to them. The main site was inaccessible yesterday, but today you can see the master list. They're all very touching. Check this one out - two kids named their backyard treehouse for their guy so he could "always be close to the deer."

Forget June 21st

I'm pretty sure the day of your child's birthday party is the longest day of the year.

Yes, we did favor bags. I succumbed to peer pressure.

Excuse me while I go collapse.

Other Ways I'm Getting Old

Please tell me you can't hear these either: Stealth Ringtones





It's possible that it's because I'm unfamiliar with them - Jay Jay and his crew are only on on early weekend mornings here, so I've only seen them while it's still dark out and I'm still groggy. But something about their fleshy faces being sucked onto the fronts of planes really creeps me out. Thanks to Corndog for reminding me.

A. turned 4 on Wednesday. We didn't make a big deal out of it because his party's not until Sunday. He told me yesterday, "Mama, what my body really wants is to open another present."

Unfortunately, I woke up this morning with a cold and thought, "No. No no no no, I can't be sick. We're having 10 kids and their parents over on Sunday. I cannot be sick." Guess what? I'm sick. In fact, it's not even 8:30pm and I'm going to bed. G'nite.

Oy, We'll Miss Ya, Mate

My least-favorite son woke me up at 5:10 am today. I don't make coffee that early because once G. gets up about 3 hours later, I want to go back to sleep immediately. So I'm pretty bleary-eyed first thing in the morning. I logged on to the internet and saw "Steve Irwin killed at 44," in the headlines, and my first thought was that it was joke. I did a quick calendar in my head, realized it wasn't April 1, which took me a while that early in the morning, and thought, "could this be true??"

Alas, it is. In 2002, while I was pregnant with A., G. and I went to one of our last childless movies together - we chose the "Crocodile Hunter." Yes, I actually saw that one in a movie theater. The other one we saw during that time was "In the Bedroom," which was a big mistake to see when I was pregnant with my first child. We're not great at picking out movies. (We also didn't think there was a future for cell phones that take a picture and that text messaging was stupid and would never catch on.)

Anyway, we were big Croc Hunter fans. Yeah, I know he dangled his baby in front of a crocodile, but no one ever said he was particularly bright. He was funny and enthusiastic and I will miss watching him. I'm also really glad he didn't get killed by a crocodile.

Collected Quotes

It's time for another A. quote post:

(while sitting on the potty): "I'm embarrassed I drank so much milk. It makes me difficult."

"What state does Jesus live in?"

“Ben came out of your belly. I came out of your belly. And you came out of Papa’s belly.”

(giving me a flower) “Here, you can wear this and it can remind you of your son.”

"Is Mama's mama in the grass?" (while passing a cemetary)

"Mama, where is your mama?"
"She died a long time ago. But I was already grown when she died."
"You could get your own food?"
"Yes."
"On a plate?"
"Yes."
"Wow, you were a big kid."

During the Emmys....

(specifically, the tribute to Aaron Spelling)

Me: Hey, was Stephen Collins on Dynasty?

G: No.

Me: How would you know?

G: I watched Dynasty.

Me: You did not.

G: Oh sure, I followed it.

Me: You did not.

G: YEAH. I DID.

Wow, you think you know a person, and then you find out that the guy you married who doesn't follow anything in the entertainment world actually watched Dynasty. Wow.

------------------------------------------

Other thoughts:

Joan Collins better stop the plastic surgery before her eyes are on the back of her head.

See, look at Helen Mirren. She looks NORMAL.

I love Tony Shaloub, but saying you never win anything on your 3rd Emmy acceptance speech is a little disingenious.

That Bob Newhart bit was the funniest thing in the whole show.

Conan O'Brian has freakishly long legs.

I wish I had cable. During the Emmys is usually the only time I wish I had cable.

It's weird to see "The Office" people all dressed up.

Next Time, He's Chaining Himself Up There

G and I are both annoyed with the fact that our neighborhood streets have very few trees on them. Many of the trees that were here when we moved in have been cut down because people don't like raking leaves. We're living in a cement jungle. There are other neighborhoods in our cities where the houses are similiar to ours, but the neighborhoods are so much more pleasant because of the tree-lined sidewalks.

So he was pushing the stroller on "his" day (Wednesday) down the street and noted that most of the trees that are left had big X's on them. He was incensed, so he called the streets division guy, who explained that those trees were slated to be cut down because all the sidewalks in our neighborhood were being widened to 4 feet and those trees were in the way. He then suggested G call the landscaping department and complain to them, since they're the ones who decide which trees are going. He also said that the trees probably weren't going to be cut down for another couple of weeks.

So G did, and Mr. City Landscaper had the brilliant response of asking G to be on the tree-planning board - what a way to shut a complainer down! Make him feel useful, and if he doesn't take the position, he can't really complain because after all, he was offered a spot on the planning board. Brilliant.

Anyway, Mr. City Landscaper also had a bit of information about the trees - if the homeowners who are slated to get the tree in front of their house cut down want to save the tree, they can sign an easement and allow the city to move the sidewalk onto their property and actually go around the tree instead of cutting it down! G asked if it would be OK if he contacted the homeowners and advocated them signing this agreement in order to save the trees. Mr. City Landscaper said, "Sure."

That was Wednesday. G, never a procrastinator, attempted to contact all the homeowners and found that either they weren't home or the people living there were renting and he would need to contact the owners. I told him that I would get him a T-shirt that read, "SAVE THE TREES" and start calling him G. "Butterfly" Lunasea.

Guess what happened on Thursday? The contractors who had been working on the sidewalks in our neighborhood diverted away from the sidewalks and began cutting down all the trees that were supposed to last a few more weeks. Guess the city won on that round.

Shoes Are The New Horse

Mystery of the week: Almost every afternoon, we have a gaggle of neighborhood kids in our playroom. They've gotten used to talking off their shoes at our front door, and we certainly haven't discouraged them (although there are times when their feet are dirtier than the shoes and then I'm not sure what to do). When they leave, they generally put them back on again. It's a fine routine.

Last night, they put on their shoes and went on their way, as usual. But outside on our doormat, I was left with two shoes I didn't recognize - one black, one white/blue, both left shoes, different sizes. I called the kids back and asked whose shoes they were, and was met with completely blank stares. We deduced that the black shoe was a large boy's shoe, and the white/blue one was probably a woman's shoe. Both were too big for the kids that had been here, and they weren't ours. We still have no idea where they came from.

Our best guess is that one of the toddlers (who isn't allowed over because 1. he requires way too much supervision and doesn't speak English and 2. we suspect no one would ever come to retrieve him) has gotten used to seeing the collection of shoes on our doormat and decided that that's where all shoes, no matter who they belong to, go.

G called from work last night and I asked if he had any idea where the shoes had come from. He didn't, and added, "Lock the doors!" Because we all know that finding an unmatched pair of shoes on our doormat is the new version of finding a horse's head in your bed. But I did lock the doors, because it was weird.

Oh, I Almost Forgot...

G's sleep-talking again. Actually, he's always doing it, but it's often just a midnight tackle and a plea not to fall off the bed. But a new theme has emerged - time (as displayed by my bedside clock) as omen of evil.

Last night.....

G. (sitting up, peering over me at the clock): Oh My God! It's 12:15! That's bad, that's really bad! (shakes me fully awake)

Me (rolling over): Why? Why is it bad?

G: That's really dangerous!

Me: Why? What happens at 12:15? Huh? You woke me up so you should tell me now.

G: Ummmmm.

Me: Really. What is so dangerous about 12:15?

G: You could have a full bladder.

Damn him. Even if I didn't have a full bladder, I would've had to get up and go just because of the suggestion. I came back to bed, he was already snoring and I stayed awake for the next 40 minutes.

Just Doing My Part

There are people who arrive at this blog who do so intentionally, for whatever reason.

Then there are people who are looking for Kristin Chenoweth's breast size. Lots of people, in fact, unless one person is doing a lot of traveling and using many different computers. But that wouldn't explain why he/she continues to visit my blog when the answer hasn't (until now!) been located here.

Anyway, I decided I should do some volunteer work, so I looked up some pictures of the "pint-sized pixie" (poor thing), and based on my personal experience of being about the same height as she is, and having a mother with roughly the same size boobs, I am quite confident in my estimation that she is a C cup or maybe even a big B. OK? OK. They look bigger because she's weighs about 95 lbs. and is in a bunch of poses where she's smooshing them together.

You're welcome.

In other community service: There appears to be no definitive answer on whether or not Tom Netherton is gay. I always know when PBS is running old Lawrence Welk shows because I get lots of hits from that query (along with the desperate plea to know why Guy and Ralna divorced).

I've always found it sort of odd that celebrity gossipers are eager to tell us all about someone's drug habits, affairs, and all other sorts of nefarious behavior, but won't dish on whether or not someone is gay. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not in favor of "outing," but why respect their privacy on this issue and nothing else? Just curious.

Anyway, the rumor certainly is that he is gay (probably because he is blonde, blue-eyed, handsome and apparently perennially unattached), but that might not play so well in Branson and Lawrence Welk doesn't do drag, so if he is, he's keeping it under wraps. Personally, I think he's probably just never gotten over his crush on Norma Zimmer.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out With That Thing!

My sister usually cuts the boys' hair because she's willing to and she does it for free. I won't cut it anymore because G. breathes down my neck every time I try. He really wants me to only use safety scissors (with the rounded tips - that don't cut anything) and can't believe that more children aren't walking around missing eyes when women insist on using sharp scissors so near their little faces.

It reminds me of learning to drive with my mother in the passenger seat- she'd see a stop sign or red light 200 feet ahead, gasp loudly, stomp on the imaginary brake pedals over on her side and flatten herself against the door. Imagine your husband doing that while you're cutting your kid's hair. I don't need the aggravation.

But, Hair Mistress Sister is currently starring in a local production of "Footloose," is very busy, lives kinda far away and the boys are getting used to tipping their heads up so they can see out from under their hair.

So I made an appointment for both of them at a kid's salon that has gotten very good reviews. G. asked if they'd be using sharp scissors, or did they use rounded scissors, and I seriously didn't know how to answer. I figured "the sharp ones" was the answer he didn't want to hear, but I was pretty sure they didn't use toddler scissors, since everyone knows those things don't cut anything. So I just asked him how he thought kids manage to walk around with both haircuts and intact eyes.

The haircuts were remarkably easy. Ben kept leaning away from her, but she was used to it and was really fast and skillful. I crouched down in front of him and kissed his tennis shoes, which he found amusing. He didn't cry, he just found it sort of annoying. And he wouldn't wear the poncho, which was fine. Both boys were done in less than half an hour, and A. got a lollipop, which endeared him to the whole process forever. A little pricey, but definitely a good experience.

They look soooo freakin' cute. G. just called to ask how it went, and I told him that "Ben ended up with an eye patch, but his hair looks really good."

Oh Yeah Baby

Scrapping mojo returns.




A. gave up his dream of "night-before-christmas" cookies and settled for slightly underbaked (forgot to remind his father that the oven is about 50 degrees off) chocolate chip cookies. The party at school was very cute and a little Montessori-over-the-top. They put a candle on the floor to symbolize the sun ("But can we get this close to the sun? Noooo.") and then looped a yarn around it in an "ellipse," put little signs with the months on them around the ellipse, and A. carried the globe ("which continent are we on? Yes! North America!") around the "sun" four times. Ben was a complete goofball and very hard to settle so I spent more time chasing him around the room and trying to keep him from taking all the shells off the cardboard they were so carefully affixed to, than I would have liked.

At one point, while I was washing Ben's messy face in the corner, the teacher read a book about making a birthday cake, and asked A. at the end, "And what do you think they did with that cake after they were finished baking it?"

He answered, "Put it on the boy." She said, "What?" He repeated himself. "Put it ON the boy."

She said, "Oookkkaaay, maybe, but I bet they ate it!"

Great. Now she thinks we have weird birthday traditions at home. I think he got that idea from all the photos of his and Ben's first birthday parties where they were covered in chocolate cupcake.

Gotta get off to bed - have another 9 clients tomorrow. It's a good thing I love them all.

Desperately Seeking Night-Before-Christmas Cookies

"Hey, A., we're going to have your school birthday party next week because it's the last week of the summer session. We have to bring cookies instead of cupcakes - like, we could do chocolate chip cookies. So...what kind of cookies do you want to make?"

"I want Night-Before-Christmas cookies."

"I don't know what those are." (Having never spent Christmas at home, we don't do a traditional cookies-for-Santa thing, which is the first thing I thought of, too).

"They're the ones that are shaped like trees. And they taste like chocolate."

"Oookay. I think we can do chocolate cookies."

"Yeah, yeah, they look like trees."

"I'm not sure I know about chocolate cookies that look like trees."

"And they have a green lightbulb on them."

"Okay, now you've lost me. Is there a picture of them somewhere?"

"You know, they're the Night-Before-Christmas cookies. Those ones."

Well, if I get started now, I might be able to come up with chocolate cookies shaped like trees with green lightbulbs on them by next Tuesday. Riiiiight. Dude, you're lucky I'm not just buying the purple bag of Albertson's Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Let's Have a Favor Bag Bonfire

Added to the list of people I'm annoyed with (along with whoever invented that stupid strip of tape that seals the tops of music CDs): The person who came up with the idea of giving out favor bags at kid's birthday parties. A. has had several b-day parties at school and each time comes home with a bag of candy, gum (which he can't eat because he swallows it - this is a class of 3-year-olds...c'mon, people!), and cheap toys that break into tiny choking hazards as soon as he brings them in the house.

I'm beginning to plan A.'s 4th b-day party next month, and I'm trying to keep it low-key. We've got lots of years in front of us to rent jumpy houses, clowns and spend thousands of dollars. Last year on the invitations we put "No Presents," because he's got plenty of toys and doesn't really want much. He also doesn't get the whole "Because it's my birthday, people bring me presents" thing, yet, which I consider a blessing. He just wants Cars-the-Movie plates and cups and cupcakes for everyone.

So this year I'm seriously considering putting on the invites: "Let's make a deal: You don't bring my kid a gift and I won't give your kid a bag of candy and cheap toys."