The year was 2003, probably the first week of February. I was 7+ months pregnant to Tunca and my sweet husband said that he would take Arda out so I could take a nap. I instantly guessed that this was just one of his devilishly smart ways of saying "Valentines Day is near, I didn't get anything for you, even though you always say that you don't want anything you'll be upset if I don't get you a gift, so I should go." There was a nap on the line, and I never say no to naps. Ever.
Both came back a few hours later snickering like the little children they are, "hid" some stuff in the hallway closet and I pretended not to notice.
Now in our house, hubby and I usually decide on something "big" we want, and combine birthdays, Valentines, new years and what have you presents into this "one" gift (my beloved past Mac Powerbooks, my new IMac, my IPod, our DVD player, the camera that takes all these photos you see on this blog have all accumulated over the years as our combined gifts to each other). But we also buy something small, like a card or a pen, or socks (yep, that's my terrible gift) as well to commemorate the day.
So Valentines Day comes and Arda (who was almost 3 then) is so excited about this great gift that they bought together with his dad.
A perfectly wrapped present.
Those of you who know me should be falling off their chairs right now because I don't cook.The thing actually comes in very handy and I often find myself saying "this is the best gift ever" and I don't mean sarcastically. I do on occasion use it for mashed potatoes, but more often for guacamole (hurray for guacamole! I love guacamole!!) and making hair to the kids' PlayDough creations. And honey, I love you. Told you in my previous post that I was feeling sentimental. Can't even write a bad gift post.
- mid post warning, mom, please read what I wrote for hubby, and we can share the certificate if I win it -
Another wonderful gift I got was from my dear mom. It was my 16th birthday, the first one I was celebrating without my parents since I was living in San Diego as an exchange student. Phone calls were very expensive then, and usually we wrote actual letters to each other. A few days before my birthday, I received a letter from my mom. Here it goes.
"Dear Zeynep,
Happy birthday! We miss you very much. Even though I never wanted to give birth to you, you have always brought joy to my life and I am so glad I did now. Love, mom."
What? WHAT?
I understand now. I was pretty shocked when I first read it, but I understand, mom. Really. It must have been so hard for you with my brother living so far from you, and your health, and your financial situation, and all the changes in your life, I understand how a second child must have scared you s*itless. What counts is what you did after I was born - be the incredible mom, the super -uber- mom who worked unbelievable hours to make ends meet, who spent every second of her spare time with me and my brother, who put curlers in my hair when I felt down and made me giggle, whom all my friends said "I wish my mom was like that," who always always supported me in everything I wanted to do even though she knew it wasn't good for me, simply because it was my choice and she is the kind of woman who respects her children...
And every chance you get, mom, you tell me how happy you are that I was born. That's what counts.
Upon closing, I would like to mention my sister in law's ill timed present (a week before Mother's day, I had no children then) - a wonderful cellulite cream as a runner up. But she made up for more than that with all the wonderful purses she gave me through the years, as well as the gorgeous heart shaped gold pendant she got me the next year as a soon-to-be-mom present. Plus the most perfect black boots she got me this year, just because she likes me.
PBN hand in hand with Get in Her Head had this wonderful idea of having all interested write their own "gifts gone bad-perfect gifts" blog entry. Get in Her Head might just be my new favorite site, soon. If only I could get hubby to read it, of course.
No comments:
Post a Comment