I spent Saturday morning in Selfridges' toy department negotiating with my six year old. What would she allow me to buy her cousins? We were somewhat limited to items she already owns or things she thinks are rubbish. There was a slightly tense moment over a chemistry set for my nephew — she relented when I offered intel that it would annoy her aunt and uncle. Trolling family members trumps jealousy, it turns out.
She is undoubtedly spoiled. When it came to visiting Father Christmas this year she was genuinely stumped on what to ask for, namely because she is drowning in toys.
I spoil her to alleviate my guilt and cushion her from the fact that we have failed to get her the only thing she really wants, which is a sibling or perhaps better, a dog (note to other parents of only children — avoid Trolls 3 at all costs).
My family are naturally gift givers. Whenever in-law interlopers have suggested uncouth ideas such as scaling down to a bleak Secret Santa or ‘children only,’ my brothers and I have doubled down. We too were spoiled, we like things. My mother still puts together stockings for us (my younger brother will turn 40 next year).
But isn’t giving the true meaning of Christmas? It always was for my Jewish father, who enjoyed presents as much as his morning bacon sandwich. When we were little my gentile mother for a time trotted us off to church once a year. After the indignity of being asked to fashion a donkey by gluing bits of cereal onto a piece of paper in Sunday school we joined our dad watching cartoons on the sofa instead. It’s not perhaps what the wise men would have wanted. But who knows what kind of wonders they might have turned up with if only they’d had click and collect in Nazareth.
"Gifting has become a transactional perfunctory thing. We swap links via Whatsapp instead of giving it thought."
And yet… in recent years gifting has become somewhat of a transactional perfunctory thing. We swap links via Whatsapp instead of giving it some thought. It’s less pottering and pondering around a shop and more, “can you get me these boots they’re on sale.”
Christmas is one of those occasions where the reality falls somewhere to the left of the fantasy. Fantasy gifts are Chanel handbags and adorable vintage bits and bobs lovingly sourced from obscure country markets. Real gifts are more a book you’ve already read and hated and some terrible socks with a gold reindeer on. One only has to flick through the smug performative one-upmanship tastemakers of Instagram to never want to buy anything ever again. Must everything be ‘scaped? Does anyone really want their pyjamas to match their bed sheets?
There is a growing movement against gift giving. Two writers this weekend explained how they wouldn’t be buying a single thing - not even for their children. A colleague isn’t buying her husband or sister anything, but they are going on holiday to Spain. There are clearly wiser things to spend money on than novelty chess sets. When faced with the reality of mounting Sylvanian Family landfill, the horror of rising bills, and the simple fact that gifts tend not to be things anyone really needs, I can see their point.
Every time I receive a message asking what I want I groan inwardly. Scouring the internet for more stuff I don’t need sometimes feels like an extra amount of labour I’m not being paid for. I’d quite like someone to come over and do the washing? Or sort out the garden, or find somebody to look at the damp. I want the elusive idea of time to myself, but also maybe some new slippers.
Would my daughter notice if I simply re-wrapped up long forgotten about toys? Erm, yes, she still remembers her second birthday party. But should I scale down the trinkets, the cute tat procured from the latest Kawaii shop to open in town? Maybe… but maybe that’s for next year.
Victoria Moss’s Wishful Thinking Gift List
