Being married to a kindergarten teacher is like rooming with a gift shop owner who brings surplus inventory home and scatters it throughout the house. This is especially true twice during the year, Christmas break and the last day of school.
Kindergarten students shower their beloved teachers with wonderful gifts. And if the haul my wife normally makes is any indication then she is truly beloved.
"What is that?" I ask.
"I'm not sure," my wife says. She's examining a hand-drawn picture, a Christmas gift from a loving student. "It's either me sitting in a chair or a five-year-old's version of a Thomas Kinkeade painting."
Some of her gifts are practical. Starbuck's gift cards come in handy, at least for me. My wife doesn't drink coffee. Cookies are always a hit. Our kids devour those before we even get a chance to nibble. My wife keeps the Border's gift cards for herself. That's the only time she's selfish, when she can pick up the latest Nora Roberts' novel.
There are also those unique gifts from the heart that the kids personally pick out, or make themselves. My wife gets bags of hand creams, bath powders and soaps offering scents that remind you of your grandmother. There are pendants made out of rocks or macaroni and jewelry made from safety pins and beads.
"What's that around your neck? Did you bang into something?" I ask.
"It's a necklace from one of my kids," she answers, prying an index finger between the jewelry and her skin as she struggles to breath. "He picked it out himself. I've been wearing it all day. I'm getting light-headed. Is my neck turning green?"
My wife was a kindergarten teacher when we met more than twenty years ago. She still has holiday coffee mugs, Christmas tree ornaments and picture frames from students from way back when. We recently got an e-mail and photos from the father of one of my wife's former students. The student's name is Georgie. Georgie is now an accountant for a big company in Ohio. The photos were of his son, Tommy. We have a picture of Georgie and his classmates that hangs on our Christmas tree every year.
However, my wife recently received a gift that she knows she will eventually kill. It's not a puppy or a goldfish - although she did accidentally kill a class goldfish once. But I am talking a living thing.
"What am I going to do with THIS?" my wife complained. She was completely bewildered, staring at the lively, green gift.
"What is it?" I asked. I had never seen such a finely crafted and intricate bamboo plant before. It was an end of the year gift from one of her students, who is Chinese.
"What am I going to do with THIS?" she moaned again.
My wife's concern is genuine. She can kill a houseplant quicker than you can say Miracle Gro. She's worried about the impending untimely death of this gift that is called a Lucky Bamboo. It is supposed to bring the owner good fortune and good health. Right now we are praying for the plant.
"What happens if you kill a Lucky Bamboo?" my wife asks. She stares at the intricate plant, placed in a ceramic bowl decorated with frogs and red ribbon. We know that the bamboo's fate is sealed because she is the Grim Reaper of gardeners. Her track record strongly hints that we should soon begin notifying the Lucky Bamboo's next of kin.
Even if the Lucky Bamboo buys the farm, my wife still has plenty of swell gifts. The pencils, photographs and cans of toffee serve as reminders of how much the students appreciate her. But if these kids truly loved my wife, they would never give her anything living.
My wife, who once killed a cactus, is worried that a premature passing of the Lucky Bamboo, a plant that is supposed to bring good fortune and good health, will bring horribly bad luck. Maybe the worst thing that could happen would be that, next year, some well meaning student brings her another lucky plant. (Tim is the author of "From Wedgies to Feeding Frenzies: A Semi-Survival Guide for Parents of Teens." To learn more about the book, email Tim at
or log onto his website at www.timherrera.com.)
