pivotal gifts
The most pivotal points in my life are marked by tradition. Each October until January, my family decorated, visited distant relatives, threw intimate gatherings, ate until macaroni became the last dish you wanted to see on the table, and exchanged gifts. When the leaves turned gold, we gathered them in our small arms and ran to our memaw, who watched us while smoking a Newport. Each Saturday, after leaving Golden Corral from breakfast, my siblings and I were shepherded into Party City. The masks, the crowd, the anticipation of the costumes we’d discover.
Then came Thanksgiving: late nights with my pawpaw where I stayed in the kitchen until I could finally swipe a fingerful of fudge. Days later, my mom would put up the Christmas tree while we watched The Wizard of Oz and baked cookies.
Then Christmas Day. I’ve been thinking about how the gifts I received — and wanted — marked my adolescence. Some gave me independence or creativity. Others taught me adult realities. And now, when gift guides fill our inboxes, I wanted to walk down memory lane and revisit the gifts that shaped me.
The Easy Bake Oven
I was very young when I received the notorious “teach our young girls about cooking” oven. My mom loves to tell the story of how I looked at her, then at the gift, completely uninterested. Still, that little machine carved out time for us to make mini brownies, cookies, and rice crispy treats. I still love cooking today, but even more, I love the communal part — creating and sharing a meal with people you love. That tiny oven gave me a sense of nurturing and care. Maybe that was the point all along.
Digital Journal
Oh, my digital notebook. Barney purple and green with a silver key. When I saw my pawpaw try to sneak it out of Best Buy tucked into his coat, I cried. Writing let me relive the drama of adolescence. Entering the password and hearing the tiny lock crank open felt like stepping into another world. It became a sanctuary for my thoughts — for the uncertainty and the huge love I felt as a kid. The only tricky part was losing the tiny key. Luckily, my mom kept a spare.
Green Dell Notebook
Apple green and sixteen inches — I adored this computer. It was my first personal one. When I shredded the wrapping paper and saw the box, I screamed through the house for an hour. I couldn’t sit still long enough for my grandfather to show me how to log in. That computer opened a universe: endless Wikipedia searches, fictional stories, internet friends, CD downloads, everything. It was the gateway to pretend adulthood, to discovery, to independence. A world where Microsoft Office came pre-installed and the Word document was yours — when ownership felt like a treasure.
The Winter Queen
As an avid reader, I got many books as a kid, but this is the one I remember most. It told the story of the seventeenth century exiled Queen Elizabeth of Bohemia and Pelagius, a West African prince and former slave, who fall in love and secretly marry. a historical romance wrapped in taboo. I still can’t believe my mom bought it after watching me linger over it at Books-A-Million. I was engrossed by the story, the forbidden love, and themes I wouldn’t fully understand until my mid-20s. It made adulthood feel thrilling. And now, somehow, I live in France.
Pastry Shoes
When MTV ruled everything, I was obsessed with the Simmons show and begged my mom for those $90 colorful Pastry shoes. I wore them proudly — long enough to be considered cool at school — and then stopped. My mother’s disappointment stayed with me. She had budgeted for them, even though splurging was hard for a single mom making maybe $30,000 with two kids. As a kid, I had no concept of fads or marketing or sacrifice. Those shoes showed me the world my mother built — one of abundance and love, even when we were struggling. They taught me the lengths parents go so their kids can have not just what they need, but what they want. Years later, I ended up working in advertising. Ironic, really.
Crying Robot Baby
The last and most horrendous gift I ever asked for was a robot baby. I was mesmerized by a mechanical child. I already had a robot dog, so a robot baby felt like the next step in my evolution. It had a blue mohawk, a silver body, and a blue shirt. I adored it until IT. NEVER. STOPPED. CRYING. If I changed sleeping positions, it wailed for hours until you put it to sleep again. And it didn’t have an off switch. One night, I tossed it into the closet. Had it been a real baby, I’d be writing this from a jail cell. My mom kept walking into my room asking where the baby was while I sat there, frazzled. I begged her to donate it. Months later, the battery finally died, and I never asked for a replacement. Truly the best birth control investment a mother could make.
I still remember each one like I opened them yesterday. They remind me of a time when I was carefree, imaginative, and believed growing up meant stepping into a wonderland.
Now your turn. What does your memory lane gift guide look like — and why that gift, of all things?
