Legos and Gratitude

Yesterday, I looked over at Forrest in horror and informed him that I had forgotten to order Advent calendars. He looked at me in horror that not having them ordered on October 10th constituted an emergency on my part. Moments like this remind him that we really are two completely different people and there are parts of me that will always remain a mystery to him.

Of course, it wasn’t really an emergency because there’s plenty of time to order them, but my usual pattern is to order them in January at half price and then stash them in the garage until the next Thanksgiving. That way I feel justified giving my kids something that to my mind feels extravagant. “A lego advent calendar? How about you open the little door and see the picture and feel thankful for that? When I was a kid, we didn’t even get the chocolate kind!”

There’s a lot of things that I try to nickel and dime my way into justifying. I want my kids to have nice things, but also to understand and appreciate those nice things. I want them to have gratitude for what they have and awareness of how fortunate our family is. We live in a place where the standard of living is very high and while we appreciate that - we love the parks and concerts and schools - we want our kids to remain grounded.

So I tell myself that we can have all of those good things, but only if we buy them at the right time or get the cheap seats or forego the luxury add-ons. Which, to be honest, has led to some pretty hilarious moments when my kids’ friends don’t know how to close our minivan door (“You gotta pull on it, honey.”) or when my kids get ridiculously excited about finding deals (“Mom! These jeans are on sale for $8. Nordstrom jeans! For 8 dollars!”). But I worry sometimes that instead of teaching them gratitude, I’m teaching them to ignore their old-fashioned mom.

Forrest and I, like most parents, try to give our children the things that we remember wanting. This gets pretty specific sometimes, like the annual L.L. Bean Backpack or the frozen berries that fill our freezers. And we talk about how “Back in the day, we had to walk uphill both ways to school with only apples and bananas and can you believe that you can get kiwis any time of the year and what are you complaining about, that sandwich looks just fine, I wished I had the Boar’s Head lunch meat when I was your age?”

But my kids don’t want the specific things that I wanted. The backpack means nothing to them, and the lunch meat is wasted on their unrefined palates. They want what they want. Which, at the moment, is a crap ton of fidgets and more screen time.

That last one is funny, because I don’t remember the words “screen time” coming up once in my childhood. Not once. The TV was ours unless my parents wanted to watch something. They want what I had free access to. And maybe that’s the key. We want exactly the thing it is that is most controlled.

I don’t plan on extending screen time, of course. And my house has more than enough slime, pop-its and nee-doh balls. But perhaps I could lay off the “You should be grateful…” speech a little bit. It didn’t work on me, and it’s not working on them. Gratitude, like all virtues, comes from a life that has been lived. We are never more thankful for a warm house than after a cold walk. Or a soft bed after a long day. Or a good friend during a hard time.

So, what the hell. I’ll buy the Lego advent calendar. It’s not going to spoil them for me to pay full price. At the same time, maybe I’ll lean into letting them live a little rather than telling them what they should be grateful for. And maybe live a little myself, too.