Grandma: A Toy Company's Best Friend


If there is a point of contention between my mother and I, it is this: my mother spoils my children. My mom’s disposable income and Anders’ ability to play her like a finely tuned fiddle are a match made in parenting hell. There’s scarcely a thing he asks for that she doesn’t buy for him. Money is no object and on the rare occasion when his tastes are a bit luxurious she’ll spend days scouring secondhand stores and Craigslist to buy it used.

We’ve had numerous discussions about this nasty habit of hers. I’ve threatened and berated as much as one can threaten and berate their mother. Still, Anders returns from a day at grandma’s with a belly full of cupcakes, a case of rage bred by somnolence, and a brand new something or other to add to the growing mountain of stuff crammed into our little house.

Somewhere out there is a Fisher Price executive, laying on a private yacht, toasting to my mother’s good health.

I’m always hyper-aware of this bad habit of my mom’s around the holidays. Anders is a two-days-after-Christmas baby and because of this we spend the first few months of the new year kissing him good night beneath a pile of shiny, new, blinking, glowing, moving, and talking plastic. Who needs electricity when you have 25 battery-powered light up robots? Speaking of that, can we talk about the batteries?

At this point in my life, I am the Nascar pit crew of battery changing. I am one more cardboard box reading “requires six AA batteries” away from picking up a night shift at the local diner to keep Anders in operable bells and whistles.

I don’t want to be a Scrooge, but I have got to get a handle on this before Christmas arrives. If I maim my foot on one more stray lego I am going to go Christmas Grinch on the both of them.

Anyone have any tips on how to handle doting grandparents?