Wishes that shouldn't come true

"Be careful what you wish for," or so the saying goes.

As Hanukkah draws near, families draw closer together and Christmas lists grow longer, this adage takes on a new meaning.

Having the whole family together may be the one wish of mothers everywhere, but the reality is, in many cases, less than picture perfect.

For example, a sampling from my family and friends:

"Children, meet your Aunt Nancy and your ... uh ... Uncle Jane. They just flew in all the way from San Francisco."

"So good to see you two back together again."

"Dad, uh, next year there'll be three of us."

"No turkey for me Mom, I'm vegan."

"That sounds bad. Maybe you should have it checked out.

"Is that a tattoo?"

"You pierced what?!"

And my personal favorite, courtesy of a friend's younger brother and 80-year old grandpa:

"They're lesbians, Grandpa."

"What? What's that?"

"You know, they hate men and love Tracy Chapman."

But as the Chrismukkah lists from my relatives begin to flood my inbox and the calls about what to bring on Thanksgiving begin to sound like a Greek chorus, I am reminded of the ultimate incident issuing the phrase, "Be careful what you wish for."

For as long as I can remember, my parents [HTML_REMOVED] like most upper-middle class professionals [HTML_REMOVED] longed for a boat.

Yes, the doctor and the lawyer whose combined workweeks frequently topped 100 hours dreamed of a long, shining vessel upon which to spend their oodles of leisure time.

"Gary, we could teach the kids to tie the knots, and Davy could get ahead of all the other boys in Scouts," my mother would say.

"He seems to be quite proficient at knots. Look what he's doing to his sister" [HTML_REMOVED] (this must have been the time my brother and I decided I should have dreadlocks) [HTML_REMOVED] "but it would be awful nice to get out on the Sound on a sunny day," my father would reply.

This conversation would be repeated with each passing holiday, only to be concluded with wistful sighs and resolutions to save for private schools instead.

That is, until a certain sleepy day in the November of my seventh year.

The phone rang suddenly and my mother answered it in her trial-attorney tone:

"Pat McCotter," she always said abruptly, "Yes, yes, this is she ... may I ask who is calling again? No, we didn't enter any contest ... a boat?! No, I don't recall entering any contest, especially through Oh Boy! Oberto ... are you sure you're calling for Pat McCotter? All right, I can drive to Poulsbo to look at it on Friday."

My mother hung up the phone with a look of terror and delight, and then did what she always did when incidents of this sort occurred [HTML_REMOVED] she called her mother.

You see, my grandmother [HTML_REMOVED] a Bremerton lottery fan [HTML_REMOVED] is addicted to contests. She fills out most any applications she can get her hands on and shoves it in the slot, no matter how ridiculous the prize.

I've won supplies of tampons (at the age 10, no less), writing contests and free passes to the zoo. My brother has won razors (at the age of 11, no less), Tonka Trucks and tons of McDonald's food.

But this time, Grandma scored. She saved 10 Oh Boy! Oberto proofs of purchase and entered my mother in a drawing for a boat. Needless to say, the boat was now ours.

All 12 feet of it, with Oh Boy! Oberto emblazoned loudly in green and red on each side.

Perhaps I should mention my parents are both vegetarians, but no matter; my mother gleefully returned from Poulsbo, Wash. the following week with her pride and joy. Now she really had it all: A doctor and a boat!

Little did my family know, however, that the USS Trantham-Oberto would bring significantly more trouble and strife than carefree days on the Sound.

On our inaugural voyage, my father gave me a pink Swiss army knife to cut rope and, while trying to sculpt a piece of driftwood, I stabbed it right through my hand. From thence forth, the Trantham-Oberto's interior held a pink tinge thanks to my prolific bleeding on the way back from Pt. Robinson Lighthouse.

The next trip out [HTML_REMOVED] which happened to be six months later [HTML_REMOVED] the boat sprung a leak due to inadequate waterproofing (apparently). My brother and I were put on endless pump duty.

Yuppies to the core, neither of my parents fish, and the Trantham-Oberto's tiny motor wouldn't allow for water-skiing, so after a more few blundered outings, it was parked indefinitely in our driveway.

The next year, due to disuse, wasps built a giant nest under its cover and stung my brother and I on multiple occasions. The year after that, while we were on a vacation, the motor was stolen by Federal Way hooligans.

"That boat is a pestilence," my father would say.

"My mother should stop entering all those contests," my mother would reply. "Then we would stop receiving all this useless crap."

One day we came home from school and the Trantham-Oberto was gone from the driveway.

"It's gone to a better place," my mother said with a smile. "Maureen, you're going to private school next year [HTML_REMOVED] you should make some rich friends with bigger boats."

I did and my parents never mentioned their yearnings for a boat again.

They're careful what they wish for.

Maureen Trantham: maureentrantham@thedaily.washington.edu