I just want to buy her the stupid Cinderella dress.

“I want a Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle. Oooooooh!”

Now, instead of a round-faced spectacled young boy, picture a curly-haired, green-eyed young girl saying:

“I want a Cinderella dress that lights up with a Cinderella ring and a Cinderella salon. Oooooooh!”

With Ralphie-like enthusiasm, my preschooler knows what she wants for Christmas. Over and over and over again, when asked by aunts, grandparents and friends, this has been her response. It wasn’t always this answer, though. First, it was “sparkly pink light-up shoes.” So, we got her some. They’re waiting anxiously in my closet, ready to be opened Christmas morning. But will she have an enthusiastic response? Or will she be disappointed?

I know I shouldn’t worry about this. I should just move forward with what we’ve already bought, and teach her a lesson in gratitude. Still. I remember the feeling of getting that one special thing you wanted for Christmas. The glossy-eyed look I’d get while flipping through the JCPenney’s toy catalog when I saw that thing. But you know what? I never remember feeling disappointed Christmas morning. Some years were lean, others were fat, but I never remember feeling cheated.

Sigh. Such a first world problem, no? I mean, she’ll already be getting more than most of the world’s children. But still. Still. Part of me is stuck in childhood, right there alongside my children as they rip paper and open boxes in giddy wonder. She’s a good kid, a great kid, and I want her to have her ultimate Christmas gift. I know that’s not what it’s all about. I know I harp and soapbox about Disney princesses. I know.

Then there’s the money situation. It’s tight this year. Very tight. We’re following the need, want, wear and read rule. The pink sparkly light-up shoes count as a need, and we’ve already bought her want. So this would just be a bonus. And then I’d feel bad for the baby. We’d have to even the score, which would cost that much more. I also don’t really want anyone else to buy it for her. /I know it’s selfish, but if she’s going to get that coveted item, I want it to be from us. From mommy and daddy. Do I want the credit? Heck yes I do.

It’s sad, I know. But have you ever felt this way? Wanting to give your kids the moon when you could only afford, and felt ethically inclined, to give them swiss cheese? (That makes sense in my head.) Did you give in? Were you glad you did? Or did you hold out? I know we’ll have a blessed Christmas with our without that stupid light up Cinderella dress, but I have to admit I’d really like to see that sparkle in her eye if she found it under our tree.