My kids think I'm the Grinch for getting them 'educational' Christmas toys

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/dec/17/christmas-gifts-young-boys-legos

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As parents, we go to enormous lengths to get our children that perfect Christmas gift. If you're like me (meaning a blatant procrastinator), you're spending these last precious days before Christmas combing catalogues, searching Amazon, strolling the aisles of the toy store, and Googling "best toys for 10-year-olds" over and over, hoping for inspiration.

I know there's a lot more to Christmas that gifts under the tree, but as a parent, when you see how excited your children get, it's hard not to want to do the best for them. I decided long ago that our Christmas gifts would be quality over quantity. One perfect gift was more meaningful than a litany of flash-in-the-pan plastic toys. Plus, with four kids, it's most cost efficient and simply means we have to buy fewer presents.

The problem is we only get one shot, one quiver in our arrow to hit the bull's eye. You think I'd make it easy on myself by just asking my kids what they want for Christmas. But I'm not a big fan of Christmas lists, which seem indulgent and also predictable. Rather, I try to discern what my kids want, mostly by eavesdropping when they sit on Santa's lap at the Christmas tree farm where we harvest our annual tree.

This is what I hear: "And what, young man, would you like for Christmas?"

"Legos!"

"Legos!"<br /> <br />From the 11-year-old down to the 4-year-old, they all want Legos. Meanwhile, I am ready to revolt. No more Legos!

I have no particular problem with Legos. It's just that we are maxed out, awash in small plastic bricks. Our Star Wars Legos and Power Miner Legos could combine forces and build us a separate mansion, made entirely of small plastic bricks. I have no more physical or emotional space for Legos. Where do we put all the finished sets? And do I insist that the $90 police station stay in one piece, or do I allow my kids the intellectual freedom to take it apart and build something else? How many more buckets of Legos can fit in the closet? And how do I manage all those flimsy instruction booklets?

The logistics alone give me insomnia. Every year I cross my fingers, hoping my kids will think outside the Lego box.

Plus, there is a part of me that doesn't want to get my kids what they asked for. Henry Ford, inventor of the Model T, said if we ask the people what they want, they'll demand faster horses. I can't trust my kids to know what they really want. Instead, to paraphrase Steve Jobs, I want to get them something they didn't even know they wanted — that sophisticated toy they didn't even know existed.

And, while we're at it, if I'm going to spend a bazillion dollars, I want that precious toy to last forever, hover in a space of timeless quality. This means I'm drawn to the wooden marble run, the wooden puzzles, the symphony toy that plays classical music, and anything handcrafted in the hills of Vermont. I want my great-great-grandchildren to be able to play with that toy long after I've been buried alive in the Lego bucket.

I know there are kids (mostly living in Vermont) who ask for wooden toys and toys that play classical music and have "heirloom quality" hand carved on the handle. My kids are not those kids. But I never lose hope.

You can see where this is leading. I have a dismal reputation when it comes to Christmas. My single arrow fired into the dark often backfires. There was the year I decided my five-year-old wanted an art kit for his big gift. Major fail. Colored pencils just didn't pack the punch I had expected. The year of the classical music toy (yes, I bought it) was also lackluster.

This is where a good spouse comes in. The year I went hippie and delivered all those wooden (educational!) toys, things looked pretty bleak. While my sons stared dispassionately at their wooden puzzles, my husband whipped out a whirring robot that came flying into the room. The wooden puzzles were immediately cast aside. The flying robot gave way to a hastily wrapped box containing the largest Lego set the kids had ever seen. It had chains and chomping teeth and rock monsters and a conveyor belt.

"Dad!" they screamed. "This is awesome!"

I knew the set wouldn't last more than a month. My great-great-grandchildren would inherit a stray yellow Lego head, but there would be nothing left of its legacy. Still, my husband had saved Christmas.

So on a recent night I consulted him about this year's gifts. Ten days to Christmas, I had reached desperation.

"What should we get the boys?" I asked. "There's this wooden catapult I saw online. It's made in Germany."

He pulled an enormous box from the closet. "Done," he said. "I ordered Legos."

Bull's eye.

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