Of all the gifts my husband has given me over the years, it’s not the sparklies I treasure the most although I adore them. Nor is it the many wonderful books that line the shelves of my office though I refer to them regularly. Funny enough, the gift I treasure most exists now only in memory. I used it into oblivion. Nu? What outshone literary masterpieces and the contents of those wonderful little turquoise boxes tied with white satin ribbons? A tea pot. A red enamel Copco kettle bought early in our marriage when we still lived in New York.

I was fed up with up with winter in Manhattan even before I stepped off the curb into an icy lake at the corner of 63rd and Madison. Fed up long before frozen subway tracks delayed me an hour to and from work. Like Alexander in Judith Viorst’s eponymous book, I was ready to move to Australia. And then, my husband walked into the house with this red enamel teapot.

Its very color cheered me. Martin’s thoughtfulness warmed me as much as the numerous cups of tea I eventually brewed from the pot. I dropped the lid once and quickly reglued the chip of wood that broke off, using it another few seasons until I carelessly scorched it beyond use. Come spring I planted the tea pot with white geraniums until it finally rusted away and went to the great tea cupboard in the sky. I’ve had many tea pots since the, but the memory of that red Copco stays with me. It was a perfect gift.

It’s heavy business, this gift giving and receiving. Tied up with gorgeous bows and fabulous paper, gifts can also come wrapped with considerable baggage. “Is the gift the right thing? Will he like it? What if I don’t like it, do I really have to wear it? Why should I shop for anything when all she does is exchange it for something else?” Most of us strike out at least sometimes in our lives. And we all receive some clunkers. We give gifts we’d really like to receive. We give gifts that come with hidden meanings. I once read of a mother who gave her daughter a lifetime membership in Weight Watchers. How lovely. Finding the perfect gift is gratifying. It means we really know the recipients, know what makes them tick. Receiving that perfect gift makes us feel known and loved to our souls.

Do gifts really matter so very much? Isn’t all the fuss and attention to presents immature? I wonder that sometimes after I read the letters from the women in Ann Landers. You know the ones who say, “I don’t need any gifts from my husband. He goes to work, cares for me and the children, he doesn’t go out drinking with the boys. That’s present enough.” The woman seems so virtuous; am I really a greedy child to love presents? I feel contrite. For about a nanosecond. And then I think, “Geez, this lady’s doing the old sour grapes routine in reverse. I bet she’d just kill for a great piece of jewelry, or book, or snazzy red tea kettle from her husband.” What’s wrong with a token of appreciation, of love, of affection once in a while?

Gifts are tangible reminders of those whom we love and those who love us. The antique cloisonne vase my father and stepmother surprised me with when I graduated college. The book of poetry my mother gave me when I was ten. The macaroni necklace my daughter made me in nursery school. Holding that red and blue elbow and bow tie masterpiece now, I can still see Emma’s chubby hands and teeny fingernails. “Put it on, Mommy. Put it on,” her voice sings in my ear’s memory. Gifts don’t take the place of love or affection, responsibility or time spent together; they simply remind us of the things we treasure about those we love. They don’t substitute for, they confirm.

And then there are gifts that can be held nowhere but the spirit. My husband’s done some of those, too. (Lest you think he hits a home run every time, we’ve exchanged a few turkeys through the years, too.) I was seven months pregnant with child number two. That third trimester is also known as the beached whale phase. About to enter the dark side of thirty, in the thick of the terrible twos, not writing a jot, I was feeling none too celebratory about my approaching birthday.

“Go upstairs and take a nice long bath,” my husband said. “I’ll put Elliot to bed and then don’t come down stairs till I call you. I’ll do dinner tonight.” Hmm. This from a man who doesn’t know a ladle from a lathe. But damn if he didn’t orchestrate a great evening! I took my bath, all the while praying the clanging pots didn’t wake up the toddler from planet Me-Do-It. When my husband came and got me, the patio table had been set with our best dishes and crystal. There were flowers at my place. Music played from strategically placed speakers. We danced for a few moments until my aching legs cried out for a deck chair. I no longer remember what we ate, if it was home cooked or gourmet take out. What I do remember is that the beached whale I was floated on the kindness of that birthday present for weeks to come.

Gifts come in as many shapes and sizes as their givers and receivers. All it takes to give a great gift is to listen with one’s heart. And all it takes to receive a gift is say thanks with the same.

Well, I’ve just returned from California where I was visiting our abovementioned son who has now been putting himself to bed for many a year. A gift for my husband is tucked into my as yet unpacked suitcase. There was a belated Mother’s Day gift awaiting me. The card wasn’t fancy — an index card with a beautiful sentiment written in his large and loopy print thanking me for being such a wonderful mother to our children. It was hastily wrapped — folded over and over in a sheet of beige newsprint. He has neither patience nor dexterity for present wrapping. When I opened it the price tag was still attached. I handed it to him quickly for its removal. And the gift itself? A beautiful glass paperweight in the shape of a heart, its swirling ropes of color glow in the light. It is not fragile this heart, but weighs cool and solid, nestling perfectly within my palm.

The gifts we give each other belie how well we know a loved one. So do the ones we don’t.
©1998,2008