a fair pony

So it's early on Christmas morn. And while the "early" part might go without saying, given the "Christmas morn" part, the youngest is now old enough—10.9 years old, in fact—that he's able to wait until 7am to rush downstairs and start the brouhaha. He's not happy about waiting that long, but he can. 

(Actually, the biggest change this year is that Max has to get up by 6:30am for her job, which means it's exponentially easier to wake her up at such an inhumane time, whereas in previous years, sandblasting was required. The Rose, meanwhile—also far from an earlier riser by nature—nobly claims she's willing to get up early on this one day for her baby brother because she's so selfless. It's true that she's quite the excellent big sister...but I vividly remember many years past when she was the one waking up her younger siblings on Christmas and suspect there's still more than a little of that lurking in her makeup. To which I can only silent cheer, and with far less of my sarcasm than at almost any other time.) 

Anyhoo. After the first round of presents have been torn into, Top Management issues her standard instructions about the wrapping paper.

(Sidenote: by the end of my teenage years, what had occasionally been an amusing Christmas sideline—how neatly my dad could unwrap presents—had become A Thing, so that the opening of presents began to take hours, as people would ever so gently lift of each piece of tape, and try to keep the wrapping paper as pristine as possible, to the point where some pieces of paper were used, I exaggerate not, a half dozen years in a row. We may have had issues, now that I think back on it.) 

But back to Portland 2019. Top Management's orders are, as usual, that wrapping paper which isn't to be saved—and in our case, that depends upon the state of the paper post-opening and/or how pretty/special it is—is to be balled up and tossed into the corner by the front door, where it'll be out of the way, and actual gifts are less likely to be lost amidst the clutter and accidentally thrown away with the discarded wrapping paper. She advises them that it should be done in a satisfactory manner and that uncrumpled paper shouldn't just be thrown in the general vicinity of the door, where it might simply end up cover the sofa. It's vaguely possible there's a distinct reason she has to issue this proclamation. 

Naturally, this turns into a secondary but still important part of the event. The paper is wadded up and tossed over the back of the couch and, generally, towards the door. Except that I'm located in the very general area, so certain members of the family find it more enjoyable to try to hit dad. I do not find this entirely objectionable. I do, however, take the opportunity rate their efforts: "Nice throw!" "Ooh, perfect!" "Not even close." "Seriously?" Like that. [I am the nurturing parent.]

Top Management opens a gift from her husband, a present which is staggeringly thoughtful and remarkably imaginative (I have no idea what it was, but I'm sure those descriptions are accurate). She wads up the wrapping paper in a shockingly haphazard manner and sorta kinda lets it fall in what could perhaps, if one squinted, be thought of as the roughest of efforts at going in a Wrapping Paper Corner direction. 

I look at her, stunned. 

"That was not an adequate shot." 

She picks up her mug, sips her hot cocoa, and gazing at me through the steam, says evenly, "It doesn’t have to be. It’s me."

Comments

[sarah r hutchins]

Hope you all continue to enjoy the Merry of Christmas Day. Love the wrapping rules.