Having a birthday this close to Halloween, my mother has been inundated with Halloween gifts her whole life.  Being a homemaker in a place where domesticity is apparent, she has also been inundated with crafty gifts her whole life. 

They usually come in three varieties: dishes (platters, serving trays, bowls), quotes (words of inspiration on wall hangings ranging in size from a Post-It Note to a yard stick), and scented (lotions, candles, potpourri).

 

Invariably, some of these items find their way to our doorstep every year.  Invariably, Mom will bestow the giver with happy hugs and acclamations of thanks.  Invariably, these gifts will never be seen again (unless she needs a gift for someone else—teehee).

 

My mother prides herself on her style.  She can be quite particular about what ends up in her house (pity for the girl my brother is dating).  One of her favorite things in the world is to buy tickets to The Home Show, drive all over the valley looking at other people’s houses, and then come home and tell me how she disliked them all.

 

As we were driving home from the traditional birthday dinner, I leaned in to my sister and told her Mom received a darling Halloween candy dish from one of our dear neighbors earlier.  “And I bet she’d let you have it,” I said with a wink in my tone.

 

“Hey, Mom!  I hear your neighbor brought something over for you today.”  She baited.

 

“YES!!  It’s a CUUUTE little candy dish.”  Mom paused.  “Do you need a candy dish at your place?”

 

My sister and I laughed.

 

One gift kept the holiday theme, but broke the Halloween mold (a thought that has no doubt crossed the mind of my ceramic-laden, gift-opening mother before): an illustrated book titled “The Christmas Train.” 

 

My mom collects Christmas stories.  She always appreciates the thought, but this gift—not just the thought—was sincerely appreciated.  A quick idea about appreciation lead me to ask a question that was not appreciated.

 

“Do you think this book would find its way to nearly as many coffee tables if it was called ‘The Christmas Strain’ and involved a tuberculosis outbreak or bout of cholera brought in through contaminated Christmas oranges?”

 

“No,” my dad played along.  “That would be when Santa bent over to hoist his giant sack and forgot to lift with his knees.”

 

“Or when Santa is locked in the bathroom from eating too many cookies and not enough fiber,” my brother added. 

 

“No,” I corrected.  “Santa is not in the bathroom, it’s Comet.  Comet accidentally swallows Rudolph’s nose and the elves pan his droppings until the shiny knob is found just in time to save Christmas!”

The Christmas Strain…  She ought to throw US out and KEEP the candy dish.