Please consider this a preface, a very important preface, that is, a salient point that you need to remember. We cannot buy parmesan.

$23 for a measly triangle, half of which is rind, and I'm standing on Spring Garden Road wearing a sandwich board that says WILL SMOOCH FOR CHEESE. The same scene plays out repeatedly: I pause in front of the dairy case marked RICH PEOPLE ONLY, PLEASE and sigh eleven times in a row, and then I push my cart over to anything on sale for $1.09. Dented lentils. Week-old iceberg lettuce. Antisocial tuna.

Every Christmas Justin and have that moment. We look at each other and shrug and I say bright green socks from the irregular bin and he says an InStyle magazine from 1998 that I'll swipe from the dentist. And lo! Our gift-swapping expectations are set. So that when I chuck a pair of boxers into his lap on Christmas morning, he's thrilled and touched. And likewise, he surprises me with that combo pack of multi-coloured post-it notes I've been eyeing.

Every Christmas I say the following, with gusto, regarding our children: I really mean it this year. It's going to be small and quiet and Cratchitty. We will make crumbcake. We will braid toilet paper garlands. We will give the children two ice cubes and a flat of corrugated cardboard each.

Every Christmas this gusto softens to I couldn't help it and Justin raises his eyebrows and says Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles Shaving Set With Squirtable Neon Cream Soap? and I hang my head and say I also was held at gunpoint in the dollar store in front of a display of Transformer knockoffs and last week I went to Wal-Mart on my way home and all those smiling yellow faces confounded me and I came home with five bags and I don't know how it happened but I'm deeply ashamed not only because of the Third World and corporate America's pillage of the proletariat but also because I am a snob.

How much did you spend? he says.

Only $12.99 per toy, give or take. It'll be good. There will be a mountain. They'll freak.

How many toys?

I calculate. Thirteen battery-operated pieces of shit. One imitation NERF foam rocket set that Ben will probably eat. Two cheap books that I can't stand already. Plastic pretend food that smells like arsenic and comes stamped WHO NEEDS A HEALTHY LIVER WHEN YOU HAVE FRIENDS?

He sighs, anticipating his annual February 12th circuit to the donation bin, the recycling depot, and the dump. So what you're saying is you spent $250 on cheap pieces of shit for the sheer illusion of quantity so that you'll feel like a better parent on the morning of a religious holiday we don't recognize in any other way other than to call it CANDY CANE TIME?

...

...

I stare at Mount Plastmore, enshrouded in crinkled white with red letters that spell VALU.

Right.

+++

We saw our quiet little boy, especially amidst the holiday kerfuffle,
actually forget how to play. He would sit, staring about him
at the massive plastic extravagance,
and not even know where to begin.

Where DOES one begin in the midst of a small toy army that plays FOR you?

Well, from my experience from years of working with children—
they either smash it,
or look at it boredly, and watch it do its thing.
The dilemma of the modern child in a nutshell.

~ Tout est des roses

I'd like to say it was a Waldorfian Awakening that inspired this year's righteous grinchness. It wasn't.

More so than any other Christmas, the dawn of das spielzimmer made it impossible to contemplate shoving a whole new generation of never-played-with, shrieking, singing, flashing junk into our brand new Grand Central Station Of Fun.

So. Despite being utterly starved of Italian bliss, our Christmas mantra became this: more is less.

There will be no Wal-Mart this year. No aimless wandering through toy departments. No impulse buys. Zero. It's one trip to a good, local toy store for ONE major present for each child, plus stocking stuffers and a book. That's it. All chosen from the kind of high-quality, ethical toys that would usually have me muttering What the f*ck is this, Beverly Hills? and send me beelining for the happy yellow faces.

(The happy yellow faces, and all their ilk, you see, are a trick. You see lower prices, you disregard the film of chemicals and crap and commercialism that clings to everything in there. You want to give your kids a mountain. You binge. Then you purge.)

Not this year. It was NOT EASY.

No mothereffin way. $73 for A TRUCK? Unbefuckinglievable. I circled the shop nine times wringing my hands before buying it, telling the cashier to hurry up before a Scotiabank clerk arrived to put me in chains.

I know. I know. But this is Ben's IT. There is nothing else. He won't notice the lack of mountain. He'll be so thrilled. And you know what? It feels good. Really good.

Until now, lego has gone under the cedar daybed to spawn on its own. This is first time we've ever bought any lego kit for more than $12.99. I stood there staring at the jaunty little price tag on the shelf for a solid three minutes. $69.99. Blink. $69.99. Blink. Still $69.99. Seventy bucks for compromise lego, the actual 'Rock Monster Cave Crusher' rig he wanted sending my wallet into epileptic fits at almost $100 a box.

I know. I know. But this is Evan's IT. There is nothing else. He won't notice the lack of mountain. He'll be so thrilled. And you know what? It feels good. Really good.

Plus pretty much the coolest, very special book ever. I was so captivated, it had to be had. Canadian, my Woozles-veteran mother later informed me. And that's pretty much it. Almost. A copy of Wallace & Gromit's Grand Day Out, found in a bargain bin for $6.99. And a colouring book based on the stories of Oliver Jeffers, all of which we have and love, because I've heard he's, like, totally hot.

Plus some of that candy that explodes in your mouth. That's it.

Plus British marshmallow sticks. Chocolate coins. That's it.

Plus two durable, kid-sized snow shovels, because snow shovelling puts hair on your chest. That's it.

Swear.

+++

More per toy, but less overall. By a long shot. This house is officially declared a Crap Mountain-Free Zone.

More is less.

Except in the case of British marshmallows.