The request arrived like always around mid-November, asking if I would provide gifts for a needy child at Christmas. You get a list of kids’ names and ages, and you select one to assist.
I usually probe the list for a boy between 5 and 10 years old. Why? Because their wants at that age are so simple. They usually are pleased with things that make loud noises, that build stuff, that they can throw, that will smash into something or knock things down.
When I got the list, there was just one name left: a 12-month-old girl with a distinctive first name. Wait. What? How did this happen? The process had to be rigged. (Hmmm. Sounds familiar, anyone?)
Hey, Salvation Army Angel Tree folks, haven’t I been good this year?
Initially, I considered asking someone to purchase the gifts for me. But that would rob me of the annual joy of knowing that what I selected would, no doubt, make a child smile. But, again, this was for a girl. I agonized and procrastinated.
Finally, late Sunday afternoon, I ventured out to a store. First up, toys. No cars or military-type items for a 1-year-old girl, I thought. Or was I being sexist?
I bagged a couple of toys that made fun noises or lit up when you touched stuff and another that would force a child to stand, walk and push to make noise. If nothing else, it was colorful and charming, a word I don’t normally use.
I also picked up a three-doll set, with fat faces, that represented different ethnicities. I liked that.
Still, I wasn’t sure about what I had. I explained my intentions to a woman in the aisle with me. She looked quickly at what I had and offered an uninspired “Looks OK.” Her tone was like, “Yes, paint does dry.”
I needed better. So I FaceTimed my daughter for her to peruse my purchases. She studied the basket and happily gave me an A for effort. With her approval, I was energized.
Next, I moved on with much apprehension to shop for clothes. I picked up a couple of outfits, including one with what I thought were unusually long socks. (I found out later that they were leggings.) As I was standing there holding up the dresses, two women strolled past, silently checking me out.
If they wanted to do something, they should have told me what 2T meant. Then I picked up a third set of colorful clothing that had 12M on it and I felt immediately that I was cooking with grease.
Because I liked the size 2T outfit, I asked two women nearby what that meant. The first thing they said, “That’s so cute.” I didn’t know how to accept that. They did explain what 2T meant. “Well,” I thought, “the girl will be 2T at some point,” so I put it in the basket.
After finishing my selections, I got my daughter on FaceTime again for her verdict. “That is SO cute,” she said with genuine approval. I thanked her but warned her that “so cute” wouldn’t go over well with the neighborhood guys I grew up with. It would be our secret.
When I was packing the stuff for delivery to the agency distributing the presents, I felt different about my gift. I really wanted to see the little girl dressed in one of my “cute” outfits. What if by chance I would see a little girl, size 12M or 2T, walking or being carried at a store, or somewhere? The proof positive would be to hear someone call her unusual first name.
As much as I would be tempted to tell her I bought it, I wouldn’t. I would feel better if her mom, or dad, big sister or guardian could say they got it for her.
My happiness, though, would resemble the joy of a receiver catching a 99-yard touchdown pass.
Email Edward Pratt, a former newspaperman, at epratt1972@yahoo.com.