The Worst Present I Ever Got

Since the gift giving holidays are now in the rear view mirror, I wanted to write about the worst present I ever got.  Truthfully, there was nothing wrong at all with the gift, just my expectations.

When I got this gift I was probably seven or eight.  At that time, I expected gifts to be toys or games.  Every year I eagerly anticipated what new things my parents would get me.  At that time, and at that age, Star Wars stuff, or maybe an Atari, would have been the pinnacle of gifts.    

So, Hanukkah came around I was really excited about what could be inside the box when I was handed the package to open.  I tore off the paper and opened the box, only to have my excitement crushed by what was inside.

With all of the anticlimactic disappointment a seven-year-old could muster I let out with a huff, “oh, a sweater.”

Clothes aren’t presents to a child.  I’m going to repeat that.  Clothes aren’t presents; certainly not to a seven or eight year old boy.    My parents already bought all of my clothes for me: shirts, pants, jackets, even sweaters.  Why, then, was something they were already giving me year round suddenly a gift?  They might as well have wrapped my morning bowl of cereal.  Happy birthday, Greg!  Enjoy your soggy Boo Berry!

What I was hoping for, instead of apparel, would have been something like the now vintage remote control R2-D2, which my parents did buy for me but refused to give me because I wouldn’t clean up my room.  They still have it, over thirty years after the fact, still in their attic.

Now that I’ve grown up a little bit and am responsible for myself and my own things, a sweater does seem like a nice present.  I’ve matured slightly beyond the self-centered views of childhood and understand a bit more about gift-giving than I did then.  I haven’t, however, outlived the, “oh, a sweater,” remark.  My family has continued to use this quote to tease me for decades and deservedly so.

Yes, I was an ungrateful child then.  I think I still am now.