Christmas in my family has always been an overwhelming orgy of consumptive glee -- food, drink, decorations, cards, presents, more food, more presents. The amount of wrapping paper alone must decimate a small forest every year.
Recently, the gift exchange has whipped itself into a fraught and frenzied cyclone. Wish lists start flying in October, greedily flooding my inbox.
Gift-giving mania reached its apex last year (or was it the year before?), when gifts for my niece had to be distributed over two days because there wasn't enough time for her to open them all in one sitting.
So I'm all for cutting back, especially given my concern about Henry growing up overly entitled. Plus, times are tight for everyone.
I didn't realize, however, I would be cut out.
Yet it's all starting to make sense. When I married Rayne, my family started addressing my mail to "Mrs. Rayne G---." Now, I'm "Henry's Mother, Mrs. Rayne G---."
Once you push a bowling bowl out your vagina, you no longer exist other than to bring said bowling ball to visit the relatives.
My mom has canceled my long-standing Christmas subscription to the New Yorker to make room in her budget for Henry. My sister and cousin have cut me off their lists entirely.
I hear their thoughts rustle through the wind: Just bring the bowling ball! All we want is the bowling ball!
It's okay, you guys. I should have known it would be like this. Two Christmases ago I overheard my mom loudly telling her cousin that she thought she loved my niece more than she loved me or my sister when we were babies.
Um, I'm right here, mom! Aren't you supposed to hide that sort of thing or something?
Let the holidays begin....
|Coochie Coochie Coo!|
Photo credit: Dale Gillard