What the…? Holy wha..?

DID YOU KNOW IT’S ALMOST CHRISTMAS, INTERNET?

Holy pajamas, Internet, it completely snuck up on me. Which is exceptionally odd considering the vast amount of work I’ve personally had to put into preparing for it each and every damned day.

My own personal goal that I set many, many years ago was to have most of my Christmas shopping completed by the beginning of December so that I don’t have to brave all of the tin-foil hatted folks trapsing about town. Then I can shop leisurely and without being bumped from behind and/or getting dirty looks from people who want me to move the fcuk over.

I may be competitive in some aspects of my life (read: most) but shopping is not one of those aspects. Every year in my hometown, one of the hugemongeous Catholic churches puts on a barn sale, where you can get awesome stuff at cheap assed prices (gotta love living in a rich town). I used to go, until I got sick and tired of women with three teeth who think that fanny packs are still a great accessory trying to mow me down to get to the vinyl warm-up jackets (trust me, I have NO interest in these).

This year was the start of attempting to start Christmas shopping prior to Christmas Eve, and I will say that we were moderately successful, in some regards. My uncle (who I promise, you wish were YOUR uncle) has a history of giving extremely bizarre gifts (one year my sister-in-law got a real disco ball. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH AUNT BECKY WAS DRIPPING WITH ENVY, INTERNET? AUNT BECKY WOULD *LOVE* A DISCO BALL OF HER OWN. *ahem*), so over the summer we picked him up a book called “Outhouses: Pictures and Contemplations.” Comedy fcuking gold, that one is.

By the beginning of December, we had most of our shopping done. We rejoyced, sang a song, danced a jig, until it dawned upon us: Alex had almost nothing to open that he could actually play with. Ditto with Ben. We had picked up some toys on clearance to be played with outside, like a slip-n-slide, which, since there is about a foot of snow on the ground, is obviously going to have to wait. So reluctantly, I trudged out last weekend and blew some more cash on the kids (before you tell me that it’s stupid to buy a baby toys, let me remind you that he may very well be my last baby, so I intend to spoil him in the ways I see fit.).

I came home, wrapped them the following day, when Dave mentioned that he felt sorry for his parents, who had very little to open.

(backstory here: Dave’s parents began joining into my families Christmas celebration three years ago. For some odd reason, the gift exchanging never progressed past my immediate family and his parents. My family doesn’t buy them anything, nor do they buy my family anything. Obviously, this needs to change if Dave’s parents are going to continue to come celebrate with us, but I have NO IDEA WHATSOEVER how to broach that subject politely.)

As an unspoken rule, the greatest part of our Christmas budget goes towards our children and each other. My parents have literally everything in the world that they would want or need, and when pressed for gift ideas for them, they typically shrug, gesture modestly at their house, and say “You know. Whatever.” If I am judgemental (I am, no doubts here), my mother is more so. If I got her something she 1) wouldn’t want or 2) wouldn’t need, like a glass figurine or something, she’d likely mock me. This is how my family rolls: we all mock each other mercilessly, anything is fair game. I ended up buying her a travel coffee mug with a picture of the caffiene molecule on it. Try to hold onto your pants, Internet, as I know just how exciting that must be to read. Not nearly as exciting as it was to buy.

Dave’s parents are equally challenging to buy for. Like my parents, they have pretty much anything they’ll ever want or need (and anything they want but do not have is far too rich for my budget), and they’re old enough that there is nothing to buy for them that is any fun whatsoever. I ended up buying my mother-in-law an ugly candle set: three different colored purple and orange candles (hate, hate, HATE orange) with a bag of beads to be placed in a large-ish plate. It’s decoration, no doubt, but nowhere NEAR as awesome as what I had initally picked out for her (Dave eschewed it as “too modern” and “funky” for her. My feelings, they were hurt.). Dave’s father got a video card for his computer.

It was as boring for me to type this (my fingers were so bored that they nearly fell asleep) as it was to buy it.

But now, since we have all this time to look over our significant pile ‘o’ gifts we’ve both realized that we’ve spent way, way, way more time and money in selecting gifts for ourselves and our children. We’re not greedy people, by any stretch of the imagination, but this is the one time of year that we really spoil ourselves. Last year, just for comparison’s sake, we asked for baby stuff. You know, the highchair, the swing, etc, etc, so we didn’t get much that was strictly FOR US.

However, now I feel ashamed.

(note to the reader: some of the gifts that are under the tree were bought with AmEx points, which we here at Casa de la Sauage call “funny money.” It’s good stuff, no doubt, but it’s the sort of things that we would not actually buy for ourselves had it not been “free.” The other portion is bought with Bonus Money (Dave’s Annual Bonus coincides neatly with Christmas) and although we could just give each other these gifts outside of Christmas, I HAVE ALREADY WRAPPED THEM LOVINGLY AND WILL NOT BE DISSUADED TO OPEN THEM AT ANOTHER TIME.)

It’s mainly because we have all of this time to examine our gifts that we’ve noticed this discrepency. So I suppose that the answer IS NOT to start shopping early, because it only tends to make us want to buy more stuff for everyone as the date approaches.

Today, I am debating. Should I go out and pick up a couple more things for my in-laws and my mother (I got my dad a DVD that I know he’ll dig. I can always shop for him, because it’s like shopping for myself. My dad and I are very much alike), or should I just go with the “they’re older and don’t want anything” route?

I mean, it’s not like these people are my children or someone else’s children that I am shortchanging (my kids are the only kids in the family. I am honestly NOT Aunt Becky, and it KILLS me. I WANT TO BEEEE AUNT BECKY!), because I feel like Christmas IS about the kids more than the adults.

What do you think I should do? Am I an asshole for not going balls to the wall and crazy with the cheese-whiz for these people (my mother included)? What would you do if you were me (keep in mind that I have zero desire to go out this weekend and try to do any last minute shopping)?

6 is an incredibly annoying age. Never before (okay, I’m lying: 3 was just as hard. Okay, it was harder. Ew.) have my feelings towards Ben vaccilate so wildly between absolute irritation and utter pride. He’s a wonderful child, (finally) developing right on schedule, but sometimes his insistance upon interjecting into every single thing we are talking about drives me up a wall. Ditto with the know-it-all-ness, cute about half the time, makes me want to drive my fingernails into my eyesockets, squish them around, the other half of the time.

That said, he’s MY kid, and don’t NOBODY fuck with him. Not unless they want his thoroughly unwashed and reeking mother (who desperately needs a haircut) to pound their ass.

It appears that along with the transition to the first grade comes the requisite bully.

My son is being bullied and I am about ready to go and kick some second grade ass.

(both my husband and my brother were the brunt of many bullies throughout their childhood, so I am a bit sensitive to it. I myself never had to deal with it, as the people who didn’t like me generally left me alone so as to avoid my wrath. Truth be told, I find it a bit hilarious when someone doesn’t like me.)

Ben’s an odd duck, that’s for sure, but he’s one of the sweetest and most gentle people I have ever met (that’s got to be Dave’s influence. It’s not from me, that’s for sure). A bigger heart is hard to find, I mean, this is the kid, who as I am putting him to bed each night, tells me that I can “get him up to help with the baby if I need him.” He’s a truly delightful person and it’s killing me that some punk ass kid is making him feel badly.

I’m aware that being picked on is a normal part of childhood, because kids are assholes, but I’m not ready to have someone be terrible to my child just yet (yeah, will I ever be?). I want nothing more than to shield him from this part of the world as long as possible, and it’s becoming apparent that this is not an option. As much as I’d like to go to school, sit behind him, and punch this kid in the balls, I’m pretty sure the teachers would probably 1) notice and 2) call the police complaining about assault.

What do I do here, The Internet? What would YOU do? Has this happened to you as a child? What did you want your parents to do that they did or didn’t do on your behalf?

5 Things:

1. I played concert cello for 10+ years. I toured all over Europe and the States. I was actually quite good, but I quit in college when I decided that smoking reefer took much less effort. Actually, that’s a total lie. I quit because I was tired of it. And honestly? While other people have lamented it loudly, I haven’t looked back once.

2. I spent my entire childhood sickly. I had an ear infection at 2 weeks when I was a newborn and was sick ever since. When I was 14, I had my tonsils out. It was only then when I was introduced to my sweet, sweet friend Vicodin. When the surgeon made the initial cut, the black necrotic tissue trapped within poured out into my mouth.

Heh. Wanna make out?

3. When I was an ickle kid, probably about 3 years old, I got lost in the grocery store. Some clerk found me wandering around and brought me back to the service desk. When the bat-faced old lady asked my name, I told her it was ‘Smurfette.’ She didn’t believe me. I insisted.

Finally, she got so pissed off with me that she got on the PA and announced that they had a small girl at the service desk with ‘pink shoes, pink socks, pink pants, pink shirt, and curly hair.’

I totally dressed myself that day. Because OBVIOUSLY.

4. Although I have successfully given up coffee, alcohol and smoking, I have been immersed in the most irritating and painful addiction to nose spray. I cannot function without it. Dr. Google and I had discussed this at great length and have decided to let things be. I’m all ‘rebound congestion’ and he’s all ‘you’re an addict’ and I’m all like ‘yeah, but what else do I have left to be addicted to?’and he was all ‘ADDICT.’

He’s an asshole.

5. Babies ‘R’ Us and I have always had a horrible relationship. I have always hated it, what with it’s hugely tall shelves and inability to hire anyone with more than 4 or 5 functioning brain cells. Having had what only can be described as ‘premature nesting obsession,’ Dave and I trekked out to EVERY OTHER CONCEIVABLE STORE THAT MIGHT HAVE BABY FURNITURE LIKE A DRESSER OR AN ARMOIRE. We even went to Baby Depot (which is s.c.a.r.y.) and Wicks.

In the end, we were defeated, especially after learning that the internet charges $70+ for shipping furniture, so onward to Babies ‘R’ Us we trudged. And we were in and out within 20 minutes with a changing table, chiffenrobe (whatEVER that is) and a glider. It was un_fucking_real.

And as for me, these days I’m neither here nor there.

Along with the new-and-improved fat pattern distribution, and the lovely accordion like belly skin, Ben has imparted upon me a more lasting legacy. A more centralized and less forgettable type of bodily change, making me prone to looking as though I have nits.

I didn’t, unfortunately, think about the consequences of pushing out a child dubbed ‘Buckethead.’ Possibly the most horrific thing to happen to a freshly 21 year old mother (besides forceps and 4th degree tearing). A hemorrhoid. Yes, folks, it’s true. The ‘roids are not only for the old and infirm. The young, nubile, swollen, and fat get them too. And ass pillows.

God, the ass pillows.

I’m waiting until I’m done pushing out the crotch parasites and then I’ll get them cut off. Until then, I’ll pretend that I’m buying the economy sized vat of Preparation-H for my mother and laugh uncomfortably whenever anyone comes across my ass pillow.

Oh, who am I kidding.

The second I got my Tucks, I labeled them “Ass Pads” and displayed them on top of our toilet. If you can’t beat ’em, announce it proudly to the world.