Party Favors

I don't mean to be ungracious, but really, what is up with party favors these days? When I think, "party favor," I think, "balloon," or maybe, "ziplock baggie filled with cheap, unnecessary plastic objects that will break within 48 hours and be in the landfill by next week." Although I'm not exactly a fan of this kind of party favor, it is at least on a scale appropriate to the observation of an elementary school birthday.

Lately, however, it seems like party favors are escalating. Lucy has been bringing home from the seemingly unending stream of birthday parties she attends a series of "favors" that, in my opinion, would more accurately be termed "gifts." Correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that in our culture it is the birthday child who is supposed to get the gifts, not the guests. Maybe I'm old-fashioned (OK, I'm old-fashioned) but it seems to me that the party itself is the gift to the guests. Imagine if, every time I had a dinner party, I not only served the guests dinner, wine, and dessert, but sent them home with tote bags full of jewelry and toenail polish. Absurd, right? Yet that's what happens at these parties.

Recent party favors have included tee shirts, flip-flops, picture frames, dolls, even live potted plants. And actually, none of these things would be so bad if they came alone. ("Here's your cute little potted geranium to remember Suzie's birthday!" I'm down with that.) The trouble is that they come grouped into increasingly larger containers. First came the paper gift bag, full of stuff. Next came the cloth tote bag, correspondingly full. Most recently, Lucy actually brought home a bucket full of favors. That's right, a bucket. Stickers, activity books, stuffed animals, clothing, makeup (yes, makeup), pens and pencils, and, of course, candy. Always candy.

Fellow parents, I am begging you! Stop this madness. Kids don't need more stuff. They need to have fun playing with each other, and that is what you are so generously giving them when you invite them to your child's birthday party. Skip the bucket, OK? We'll all be happier in the long run.

Corporate

Somehow, don't ask me how, I got sucked into being on the silent auction committee at Lucy's school this year. This is a job involving mostly begging for donations, which in the current economic climate is not exactly a rewarding endeavor. Nonetheless, begging I have gone, asking at stores all over the county and beyond for a little something for the auction. I have asked at coffee shops and malls, yoga studios and department stores, even gas stations and supermarkets.

Now, believe me when I say that I am sympathetic to the position that one should not have to give donations to the public schools, particularly when one does not even have children attending them. Did we not all pay thousands of dollars to the federal government for this very purpose just last month? Do we not sell tens of millions of dollars' worth of lottery tickets to the quantitatively illiterate to ensure, among other things, the financial health of our schools? Why, yes, we did, and we do. So why is this crazy woman with the redheaded boy in tow asking for a free half pound of coffee? I get that. I do. Furthermore, I get that the recession has been very hard on the retail sector, and that altruism may not be at the top of their list of motivators at this particular juncture.

So I expected a lot of rejection at the outset. I figured that most of the mom-and-pops would turn me down, having been hit the hardest. I thought a lot of regional chains would probably say no, too. My best chance, I decided, was the huge national megastores, which were presumably large enough to weather the downturn with their $20 gift cards intact. I figured, for example, that Wal-Mart was doing OK, since in times of economic hardship people previously unwilling to shop there might be forced to cede the high moral ground in order to afford clothing for their kids. Places like Toys R Us, The Gap, Home Depot. They have a little something to spare, right?

Wrong. Here is an approximate transcript of a visit to one of these stores:

Guy Behind the Counter: Hi! Welcome to Toys R Us [Wal-Mart, The Gap, Home Depot, etc.]! Can I help you?

Me: Hi! Yes! I'm with the Old Forge Elementary PTA, and we're having a silent auction in May to raise money to buy technology packages for the classrooms [proffer official letter]. We're hoping you might be able to donate something for the auction. Anything would help - a gift card, an overstocked item, whatever.

GBtC: [eyes glaze over, speaks in a monotone] I'm sorry. I can't handle that here. You'll have to contact our corporate headquarters via our web site, [quotes web address].

Me: Oh. OK. Thanks anyway.

I must have had this conversation 50 times over the last month. I ask for a donation, I get referred to Corporate. OK, so, I'm no stranger to the internet, I went ahead and hit those web sites, which are absurdly difficult to navigate (unlike the main sites for the stores themselves). I filled out web forms, I sent emails. Here, then, is an exact transcript of an exchange with one such corporate headquarters, which shall remain nameless:

My email:
Hello,
I am on the PTA at Old Forge Elementary School in Maryland. We will be having a silent auction next month, and I visited your store in the Valley Mall today to ask if they would be able to donate an item or a gift card for the auction. I spoke with Brittany, the manager there, and she told me that I needed to contact you electronically about this. I am attaching a letter containing more information about the auction and our school. Our taxpayer ID number is available on request. I know many of the students and parents at our school shop at your store - I hope you will be able to help us!

Thank you,
Kira Hamman

Their response:
Thank you for your inquiry. [Name of company] is committed to investing in the communities we serve. We believe we should go beyond the basics of ethical business practices and embrace our responsibility to people and to the planet. We believe this brings sustained, collective value to our shareholders, our employees, our customers and society. Social responsibility is fundamental to who we are and how we operate as a company. We invite you to visit our web site at [address] to read about the projects we are currently supporting.

If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.

[Name]

My response to their response:
So is that a no?

Yeah, so, it turns out I was right about the quantity of rejection, but dead wrong about its source. It turns out that, in hard times, it's the people in your own community who help you out. The local hardware store. The dog groomer. The dentist's office. The dentist's office! They put together a gift basket for us! The hair salon. The local pizzeria (Domino's said no). The bowling alley. And so on. Here's an approximate transcipt of a visit to one of these stores:

Lady Behind the Counter, who is also the owner: Whaddaya need, honey?

Me: Hi! I'm on the Old Forge PTA, and -

LBtC: Oh, my kids went there years ago! Such a nice little school. Is Mrs. Waterman still there?

Me: Uh, I don't think so. I'm not sure. My daughter is only in first grade -

LBtC: Oh, that's the best age! They love school so much at that age! And how old is your little one [gesturing to Ben]? Isn't his hair something else?

This can go on for some time, until finally:

LBtC: So you need something for the auction. Why don't you go ahead and pick something out? Something under $20. Whatever you think would sell.

Me: Thank you so much!

I feel like a jerk and an idiot for being so off-base on this. Now, of course, it makes sense. These people know who I am. They know the school, they know the kids. Their kids, or grandkids, or neighbors, or all of the above, go there. Unlike Corporate, they actually care whether or not Old Forge kids have what they need. Furthermore, being businesspeople, they hope that being generous to the local school will bring them much-needed business that they might not otherwise get. Corporate knows it already has our business and doesn't need to work for it.

It's not like I needed another reason to hate megastores. I am firmly in the bleeding-heart-liberal camp of people who avoid Wal-Mart like the plague that it is (except, of course, when I'm begging for auction donations). I understand that if I don't support local businesses then they will fail, irrevocably changing the landscape of the small town in which I live. I know I should buy lumber at the local mill instead of Home Depot, books at the independent bookseller instead of Barnes & Noble, toys at the little store downtown instead of Toys R Us. And most of the time I do.

But I won't lie. To me, shopping at Target is one of life's little pleasures, right in there with pedicures and discovering that my husband has folded all the laundry. The convenience of one-click buying at Amazon is as seductive to me as the apple was to Eve. Unfortunately, the consequences are proving to be as dire. I love Quizno's subs. But you know what? I don't want to live in a world where I have to get my subs at Quizno's because they've driven everyone else out of business. And there's the rub.

As I was thinking about these things earlier today, my favorite independent toy store posted a link on their facebook page to the 3/50 Project. I was immediately smitten with their attitude, the upshot of which is that it doesn't have to be all or nothing. You don't have to swear never to one-click preorder the latest Harry Potter from Amazon ever again. You can have a Quizno's veggie sub with no onions and extra guacamole. You can even, dare I say, browse through Target's spring collection. Just, please, promise to support the local guys too. Every month, spend at least $50 among at least 3 local independent businesses. Pick up the potting soil you need at the local store instead of the megastore. Go out for dinner at a non-chain restaurant. Get your morning coffee and bagel somewhere other than Starbucks one day. Done. Get it? So simple! So easy! So effective.

Because, to quote Judy Collins, "God help me if I ever have to shop at Wal-Mart because nothing else is left."

Mr. Harry

On Thursday night I realized with dismay that, because school was conveniently getting out two hours early the next day, the bus stop run would conflict with an important phone conference I had to participate in. Oh, the joys of working from home. After a brief pow-wow, John and I decided to let Lucy walk home from the bus stop alone for the first time. It's only about 100 yards, but you have to walk down the hill before turning onto our lane, and then you have to walk down the lane to get to our driveway. She knows the way, of course, and knows to walk in the grass rather than on the road, and so on, but we had never let her try it on her own before. As with so many things, she was excited, I was conflicted and apprehensive.

Still, the conference must go on, so Friday morning I wrote a note for Lucy to give to her bus driver (known to one and all as "Mr. Harry") explaining that I was at home but couldn't come out to meet the bus, and that it was OK for her to walk down the hill alone today. I confess that I was not paying much attention to the phone conference as the appointed time drew near and I strained to look out the window. You can't actually see the bus stop from the house, but eventually I saw her turn onto the lane and I breathed a sigh of relief. Just then I heard a "toot-toot!" and saw Lucy turn to wave at someone I couldn't see. Mr. Harry, of course. He'd waited until she got all the way down the hill before driving away, even though that put him at least five minutes behind schedule (probably longer, knowing Lucy's walking speed).

It was typical of him. He was the kind of guy who had inside jokes going with most of the kids, who managed to draw shy Lucy out of her shell within the first week and who honked the big bus horn at Ben every day as he drove up the hill before dropping Lucy off. As I went out to get Lucy today I was thinking that I would thank him for keeping an eye on her on Friday. He would brush it off, tease Ben about wearing his rain boots on this 90 degree day, and drive off.

Except that Mr. Harry wasn't on the bus today. A woman I'd never seen before pulled up and, as Lucy was climbing off, told me that on Saturday Mr. Harry was in, of all things, a traffic accident. He died.

As the tears filled my eyes, I thought of how this was the first person Lucy has known to die. I knew I would need to talk to her about it, and that I would consult my therapist mother for advice on what to do. I knew I would have to decide what, if anything, to tell four-year-old Ben. I knew this was something you deal with in life, and I knew we would deal with it. But, while I knew all this, I was momentarily stunned by the suddenness of it. By the vivid reminder that you just don't know, from one moment to the next, what will happen. You can't live your life worrying about it, of course, or you would go crazy and your children would grow up to be agoraphobic. You have to let your kids walk home from the bus stop on their own when it's time and keep your apprehension to yourself. You have to operate on the assumption that tomorrow will come along in due time and that it will be pretty much like today. But every once in a while something happens to make you realize that this, like all assumptions, can be spectacularly false.

I guess the antidote, if that's the word, to the unexpected turns life takes is to appreciate the present as much as we possibly can. To find joy in the things we do every day. To toot the horn at a little kid who wishes he got to ride the bus, too. To take an extra five minutes making sure someone gets home safely.

We'll miss you, Mr. Harry.

RSVP

Three, maybe four weeks ago I sent seven adorable (if I may say so) hand-designed invitations to Lucy's seventh birthday party to seven carefully selected friends and classmates. The invitation gave all the relevant information - date, time, location - plus a plea to "please respond to..." and included both my phone number and my email address. Hey, I'm not old fashioned. I don't require an engraved response card. Email is fine. Indeed, I even omitted the apparently misleading RSVP acronym, a not insignificant concession on my part. RSVP, of course, means "please respond," but since even fewer people speak French than respond to invitations these days, and in light of past disappointing response rates, I elected to speak English this year.

Turns out no one speaks English either.

The party in question is now three days away, and here are the numbers:
Yes: 4
No: 0
Maybe: 1

Hang on. Maybe? What, if you don't get a better offer? Well, yes, basically. The family has something else to do but will come by if they finish early enough. Wow. What do you say to that? I mean, it's not that I don't want this child to come to the party, not at all. And I know Lucy will be sad if her friend is not there. In fact, I can easily imagine the little girl pleading with her mother to let her go to the party. This is what we in education call a teachable moment. The mother expresses sympathy for her daughter's disappointment but explains that sometimes in life you have to make choices. At least, that's what happens in my fantasy world, also known as 1955. In 21st-century real life, apparently, it's fine to be rude.

Meanwhile, you may have noticed that these numbers do not add up to seven. That's right - two children (or, to place blame where it's due, their parents) have yet to respond. The "maybe" response notwithstanding, it is hard to imagine that these people do not themselves know whether or not their daughter will attend. Surely by now they have made a decision on this. Why not let me in on it? It is to these people that I am always tempted to say, when they call the morning of the party to say breezily that little Betty will be there, that I'm so delighted to have her if only she'll promise not to eat or drink anything, since the shopping for the party was done a week ago. Oh, and no party favors, either.

I don't say that, of course, because I am a very serious Non-RSVP Enabler, also known as a Polite Hostess. But I think it. You hear me? I'm thinking it!

BFF

Yesterday Lucy said to me, "Mom, Madison is my BFF."

Now, there are two deeply troubling linguistic issues in that sentence, but leaving aside for a moment the entirely open question of whether or not I should allow my child to consort with someone named after a Daryl Hannah character from the 80's, let's instead consider the term "BFF."

No sooner was it out of her mouth than Lucy fixed me with a doubtful stare. "Do you know what BFF means, Mom?"

Oh, the irony.

Now, it happens that I do, in fact, know what BFF means. I know because a friend whose daughter is some years older than mine told me. This happened, oh, about a week ago. The friend mentioned her daughter's BFF in an email, and I responded by saying "WTF is a BFF?" to which she responded, predictably perhaps, "OMG!!!"

So, yes, I know what a BFF is, but not, and I repeat NOT because I am in any way Hip. But did this fact stop me from acting Hip to Lucy? No, it did not.

"Sure," I replied nonchalantly, "I know what BFF means." Implying, of course, "what kind of idiot doesn't know that?"

And yet. And yet. Do I really know what it means? I suppose we've always had this concept, albeit without the acronym, but for me the BFF is a thing of the past. I have dear friends, indeed, and in some adult sense my husband is my BFF, but methinks the BFF is a very adolescent construct. Which, because my own adolesence is mercifully behind me, means that I probably don't really know what BFF means, at least not what it means to an almost-seven-year-old. Furthermore, it was amply clear from her expression that Lucy did not expect me to know what it means.

And so it seems we have entered a new era, one in which Lucy knows and understands stuff that I don't. One in which she knows that she knows stuff I don't. One in which I become less Hip, or perhaps simply in which my lack of Hipness begins to be objectionable.

None of this is exactly a cheerful prospect.

Except - wait - isn't this what growing up is, at least in part? Isn't it just the latest version of all that separating I've been talking about? Growing away from your parents and their (un-Hip) ways. Growing new ideas and, yes, new vocabulary. Having a BFF that they did not choose for you and have, in fact, never even met. Yep. Sounds right.

OMG.