I’m at the toy store, Christmas shopping for my nephew Baby Jack. Buying presents for babies really is a pure act of giving- it’s not like he’ll have any concept of who purchased the item, I just get the satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed it.
It’s probably similar to the feeling people get when they buy gifts for their pets, or senile elderly people.
I keep picking up toys that are completely inappropriate for a very small child, but would be totally awesome for me. You should see how they’ve souped up the Etch-a-Sketch! Mine just had the two knobs, and you shook it to start over when you fucked up the picture. Now it’s got like fifty different features, like somehow remembering your pictures, and engaging in intelligent conversation.
Nothing brings a family together like a cute baby, so everyone’s coming home this year to watch him play with the presents they give and keep score on which ones he likes best. It really has ignited a competitive spirit among my relatives- if Baby Jack rejects your toy, obviously you are incurably stupid and have no concept of what the child likes. However, if Baby Jack selects your toy from the pile to become his latest most cherished possession, it can only mean that he loves you best.
Of course, come Christmas morning, he will most likely ignore all the toys in favor of the boxes and wrapping paper.
When I was little, my sister Shannon and I engaged in an annual battle over who would be first out of bed on Christmas morning to see the loot Santa left. As the years progressed and the wake-up calls kept getting pushed back earlier and earlier, my mother tried to alleviate the predawn toy rush by giving each of us a Benadryl capsule before bed on Christmas Eve. But even drugging us into submission couldn’t prevent the need to be the first to see what Santa had left behind. In order to assure one could not rise without waking the other, Shannon and I eventually started binding our hands to each other with yarn. If she jumped out of bed first, she’d drag me along with her.
I know a lot of people’s childhood holiday traditions don’t involve drugs and bondage, but these are cherished memories in my family.
I keep picking up toys that are completely inappropriate for a very small child, but would be totally awesome for me. You should see how they’ve souped up the Etch-a-Sketch! Mine just had the two knobs, and you shook it to start over when you fucked up the picture. Now it’s got like fifty different features, like somehow remembering your pictures, and engaging in intelligent conversation.
Nothing brings a family together like a cute baby, so everyone’s coming home this year to watch him play with the presents they give and keep score on which ones he likes best. It really has ignited a competitive spirit among my relatives- if Baby Jack rejects your toy, obviously you are incurably stupid and have no concept of what the child likes. However, if Baby Jack selects your toy from the pile to become his latest most cherished possession, it can only mean that he loves you best.
Of course, come Christmas morning, he will most likely ignore all the toys in favor of the boxes and wrapping paper.
When I was little, my sister Shannon and I engaged in an annual battle over who would be first out of bed on Christmas morning to see the loot Santa left. As the years progressed and the wake-up calls kept getting pushed back earlier and earlier, my mother tried to alleviate the predawn toy rush by giving each of us a Benadryl capsule before bed on Christmas Eve. But even drugging us into submission couldn’t prevent the need to be the first to see what Santa had left behind. In order to assure one could not rise without waking the other, Shannon and I eventually started binding our hands to each other with yarn. If she jumped out of bed first, she’d drag me along with her.
I know a lot of people’s childhood holiday traditions don’t involve drugs and bondage, but these are cherished memories in my family.
I slept quite contentedly with my hand tied to my sister, knowing as long as we were attached, there was no way I’d miss anything good.
Before I head back to Mississippi, I’ll have Christmas with my roommates George and Kit. Kit moves to New York at the end of December, acting on a completely selfish desire to live in the same city as the man he married last month. I just lost my buddy Slutty Mandy to New York a few months ago. I really wish that goddamn city would stop taking all my friends. Last week, this really nifty guy I’d been on a few good dates with kinda dropped me, and even though Slutty Mandy listened patiently on the phone as I wallowed in my momentary misery, it just wasn’t the same without her drinking beside me. The thought of also losing Kit in this capacity fills me with dread. I’m totally running low on people who are willing to pat me on the head and tell me I’m pretty and all men are idiots.
I guess it’s another one of those damn lousy side effects of the passage of time. Mulling over my options in the toy store, it occurs to me that Christmas morning no longer belongs to my sister and me- now it’s for the baby. We leave that particular sense of wonder and joy to a younger generation, and we move on to discover new surprises elsewhere. That’s why my friends are scattering to the four winds. I understand that, really I do. But it’s still very difficult to resist the urge to grab some yarn and bind our wrists together, keeping us attached, so I don’t miss anything good.
Before I head back to Mississippi, I’ll have Christmas with my roommates George and Kit. Kit moves to New York at the end of December, acting on a completely selfish desire to live in the same city as the man he married last month. I just lost my buddy Slutty Mandy to New York a few months ago. I really wish that goddamn city would stop taking all my friends. Last week, this really nifty guy I’d been on a few good dates with kinda dropped me, and even though Slutty Mandy listened patiently on the phone as I wallowed in my momentary misery, it just wasn’t the same without her drinking beside me. The thought of also losing Kit in this capacity fills me with dread. I’m totally running low on people who are willing to pat me on the head and tell me I’m pretty and all men are idiots.
I guess it’s another one of those damn lousy side effects of the passage of time. Mulling over my options in the toy store, it occurs to me that Christmas morning no longer belongs to my sister and me- now it’s for the baby. We leave that particular sense of wonder and joy to a younger generation, and we move on to discover new surprises elsewhere. That’s why my friends are scattering to the four winds. I understand that, really I do. But it’s still very difficult to resist the urge to grab some yarn and bind our wrists together, keeping us attached, so I don’t miss anything good.
