At precisely 6:27 a.m. Christmas morning (that particular sequence of glowing digital numbers is permanently seared into my memory), Miss C bounded into our bedroom, excited about the forthcoming bounty from your sleigh. Some favorites are the singing disembodied Barbie Island Princess doll that could seriously scar someone for life if they were on drugs, a Play Doh center that appeals to mama’s anal retentiveness as all the pieces stow away neatly inside, and enough play makeup to outfit a whole chorus line of drag queens.
I, however, was a little disappointed. Couldn’t you have answered my wish Santa? Huh? Santa? Hello?
Look, I haven’t bothered you in years. Not since I really wanted that Bionic Woman doll in what, 1975, 1976? And I didn’t even hold a grudge when my pleas for a Nintendo video game system in high school apparently went unheard. Rumor has it that was the year Mrs. Claus caught you spiking the elf’s egg nog and banned you from your weekly Friday night poker game, so I could understand the oversight.
Miss C is in the ask mama and daddy all types of questions age and I really could use that parenting guide I wished for on how to answer all of these things her growing mind grapples with daily. I studied the pregnancy guides and newborn baby books like I was cramming for the GMAT, but now I am left to scratch my head and silently churn out nothing better than “uh, uh, uh” to such hard-hitting questions as, “When is God’s birthday?,” “Who made God?,” “How are babies made?,” and “Can Santa hear me when I make a wish?”
This parenting gig is only going to get tougher and the questions aren’t going to get any easier so please next year at least let me borrow that parenting guide, OK? I promise to return it
after I’ve scanned every page and opened up an eBay shop selling it for $99 a copy.
I’d really appreciate it. Otherwise I’ll be serving up plain skim milk for your fat ass come December 2008.