Christmas

My mother sent an email. She is getting pretty old, so she wrote: Michael, I am getting too old to send Christmas presents, so, if your family celebrates Christmas, please buy something for them, and I will give you the money.

Do we celebrate Christmas? Not really. Is there an 8-year-old in our home who has his antennas up and realizes that Christmas is a windfall for kids? Absolutely. So, I asked Poo. This was her response:

Thun has been asking for a remote-controlled car. He has been a good boy lately: never crying, doing well in school, helping Mommy around the house. So I think we should buy one for him, and of course, one for Jason, too, otherwise they will fight, and say they are from Khun Ya Sallee (highly respected paternal grandmother Sally).

I hate to give in to the boys’ materialism, but I always give in to Poo, so we bought them. Christmas isn’t here yet but we couldn’t stand the excitement, and the boys have been playing non-stop ever since Poo brought the big boxes into the house.

I have a massive headache. The cars are noisy enough but the boys have been screaming (sometimes with joy, other times with anger) since they unveiled their gifts. Jason has already broken one piece off his car. Poo has rubbed my shoulders and said “sorry!”.

“I told you not to buy them!” I yelled at her, “One more day, and they will be two piles of plastic and metal rubbish!”

“That’s good!” she replied, “then you won’t have a headache!”