Next Year, You're Getting a Box

You would think, spending the amount of time with my children that I do, I would have no problem picking out exceptional gifts for them. Well, you would be wrong. Though I've only been a mother for 3.5 years, I have struck out repeatedly when choosing "big" gifts for gift-giving holidays. The toy kitchen is mostly used for bathing dinosaurs and microwaving Hot Wheels, the Power Wheels Jeep sits in the garage for 8 months out of the year, the tricycle is buried under several inches of snow (probably the most action it's seen since May), and the train table has been shoved into a corner of our computer room/guest bedroom (I know...) because I'm tired of watching little boys leap from it.

This Christmas, I decided on a different approach: furniture. We have hardwood floors and because I still haven't found an area rug I like, there is limited seating for little ones. The husband and I decided on the cute arm chairs from Pottery Barn, complete with monogramming. We sure thought we were clever, labeling them to avoid the "MINE!" epidemic that plagues houses with small children. As if that would be the only problem we'd have!

I had many dreams for these chairs. I could picture the boys sitting in them, quietly leafing through books while I did motherly stuff like mop and bake and play Mafia Wars. Apparently, I was picturing someone else's kids. It is five days after Christmas, and for the third consecutive day, the chairs are locked away in the computer/guest room, after being confiscated for inappropriate stacking and climbing. I'm far from a parenting veteran, but this, this, was a rookie mistake. If any kids could turn foam chairs into something dangerous, it would be my two. So now the only purpose these ridiculously expensive diminutive arm chairs are serving is to catch the dust before it settles on the train table.