Monday, December 22, 2008

Happy Holidays

I never really understood the holidays BH. (Before heathens)
Before, you got presents, you bought presents, and you ate and slept.
A pretty good system. Nice and simple.
Now, as a parent, I have entered Holiday Hell.
You know what I'm talking about.
Think parents biting and clawing at each other for the last Tickle Me Stupid Elmo in a fifty mile radius.
Think obsessive baking of cookies.
Think matching Christmas clothes that the heathens will never wear again.
I seriously thought I might cold cock an old lady looking at the last remote controlled dinosaur in the store.
Caught myself before it actually connected.
Scared her into letting go of the dinosaur.
(Damn that old lady could run fast.)
Seriously, I'm sick.
The Man is no better. He had to buy the oldest heathen a bicycle. Bug is four and falls over everything. Lint on the floor? You can bet he'll fall over it. The child wears size eleven shoes--he's all legs and feet. And the feet never go the same direction.
So I look at the bike and picture the injuries and trips to the emergency room.
The Man makes it worse with a few choice words, "We can pass it down to Boo!"
So not only will my oldest baby be bloody and battered, but now he's tossing my blue eyed baby boy under the wheels of a blood thirsty Huffy bent on world domination and child scarifice.
The Man is half crocked and all crazy.
I have held baby dolls and checked for cuddle factor.
I have scoured the shelves for remote control cars that were suitable for young boys.
I have weighed the pros and cons of different icings and whether glitter or glaze is better. Sprinkles or sugar crystals?
I have entered a Martha Stewart Christmas variety of hell.
All so my heathens have one of those holidays.
The ones they remember with fondness. The ones that make it look effortless and magical. the ones that, when I am ashes and dust, they will have to look back on and know their mama loved them as she killed herself trying for that perfect gift.
Love hurts.
Love kills around the holidays.
My heathens better appreciate this! They better put me in a nice home when I'm old and senile. One where a handsome young man wipes my chin and my butt with warmed, soft wipes.
I'll have earned it after all of this.
Happy holidays!

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