Curran is an odiferous 11-year-old sack of skin parading around as my offspring. Except for a few similarities in mannerisms and a likeness in our smile, we are opposites. Like, opposite ends of the spectrum, opposites.
During Christmas, when gift giving rolls around, I teeter on the edge of amputating an appendage, boxing it up, wrapping it nicely, and slapping a bow on it. My sanity sits on a shelf down the aisle “You’ve got to fucking kidding me,” in-between “Oh, we’re doing this again?” and “Not if my life depended on it!”
I’m not special, I know I’m not the only mother who cries herself to sleep every night praying that when she wakes up her kid is normal and not something resembling a vampire.
I don’t think my kid knows what soap is. He’s 11 years old and while I’m not above throwing on a bathing suit and climbing into the tub with his ass to do an instruction on the art of soap application, I still don’t want to see an 11-year-old’s penis. For all I know, he thinks the bar of soap is food. I know for a fact that he uses body wash as shampoo. While that’s not entirely ludicrous it’s still like wtf, dude – there are fucking shampoo AND conditioner right there, savage!
For the most part, my child doesn’t know that I exist; at least until dinner-time, his birthday, or Christmas. When he stands to benefit, my presence is acknowledged. Legit, if I don’t ask, he’d never tell me that he needed something. I must be vigilant. I must pay attention to the fact that the little asshole has had the same bottle of shampoo for 6 months; that shit ain’t right. I need to question why he’s never asked for more toothpaste. What the fuck is going on there? And exactly where are all your socks going you little demon? So, now the real question: how many bars of soap is enough for a Christmas present?
I’m doing my best as a parent to get my kid gifts that will drag his ass out of his comfort zone and out into the fresh air, or at least away from a gaming console. In so doing I’m preparing for a massive amount of eye rolling and whining. I expect some passive-aggressive body language and maybe even some gaslighting. Remember when I said that there was no resemblance? Strike that, spitting image.
Am I doing the right thing? Do I get him what will make him happy but surely lead to a life of diabetes and heart disease? Or, do I force him out into the sun where he may burn upon introduction to the elements. Oh, but his little chubby face will be all aglow with Cheeto dust and adoration if I cave. His stiff fingers, rigid from hours of playing, his ass fused with the couch; he will become a piece of smelly furniture – like our own rank, pubescent Alexa.
Fuck it, I liked it better when I was a drunk and could blame shitty gift-giving on the booze or better yet, just forget to show up to your function altogether. There I said it. Being an alcoholic had its benefits; a constant and ever ready excuse. No one ever expected anything from me. Tina? Nah, she never shows up. Kinda miss those days. “Oops, did I gift you my panties? You mean I just a wrapped a pair of my own? I could have sworn those were Victoria’s Secret I bought. Must have been a little tipsy. My bad.” Ahhh…those were the good old days.
So, it’s settled, an official ban on Christmas in my home. I’m not about to start drinking after all this time and I’ll be damned if I get another gaming system in my house. I’ll staple my labia together with a Swingline before that shit happens. I’m dead serious. When the Xbox learns to load the dishwasher or perform oral sex, I will consider it. Until then, go fuck yourselves. This Christmas bullshit is too much stress and if I end up with nothing but a t-shirt again this year, it isn’t worth the effort. Soap and shampoo for everyone, motherfuckers!