Father Christmas

The good Lord teaches us that it is more blessed to give than it is to receive. My Mom would probably tell you its more blessed to do anything than to receive the crap she gets from my dad year after year for Christmas. As a young child, I was scapegoated as my dad would place my name after "From:" on many of the tags attached to these senseless gifts. But no longer do I allow this to occur. For a few years now, the full responsibility of foolish gift giving has solely rested upon my dads shoulders yet it has not brought him to his senses.

Now my dad always has given good presents to me. Whether it was golf clubs, a shotgun or a new mountain bike, his presents have always been thoughtful, generous and much appreciated. But for some reason, this same ability to provide worthwhile gifts has not manifested itself in giving to my mom. I feel the only way to illustrate this is through the examples over the years.

Item #1. My mom hesitantly opens the next present from my dad. Its carelessly wrapped in birthday wrapping paper. Not a great start. As she peels back the paper, her eyes widen at the sight of a shoebox. I can only imagine the thoughts of horror going through my moms mind as she pictured my dad shopping for shoes, especially in the women's department. The last time he went shoe shopping was after he had worn through his decade old white new balances. My mom offered to go for him, but he stubbornly refused and managed to comeback with a silver and green pair of Air Force Ones, I kid you not. Nelly would have been proud. This pair of shoes was immediately confiscated by my mom as she hid them in my closet instructing me to never give them back to my father. Even I have only had the courage to were them two or three times in public. I digress...I was sitting across the room from my mom when she first peered inside the box, but the moment i saw her face twist in confusion and disgust I was immediately behind her to see what my dad pulled off this year. Inside the box were two Smurf-colored slippers. I use the word slippers loosely. They looked like two marshmallows had been taken out of the microwave and wrapped in blue nylon. The massive, puffy and brightly colored slippers literally left everyone dumbfounded. "Why?" i asked myself. Realizing that he had only moments to explain himself before the verbal abuse began, my Dad grabbed the slippers explaining why they were so great. BS flowed from his mouth about comfortable design and cutting edge materials as he placed them one by one on his own feet. In fairy tales, Prince Charming places the slipper on the foot of his love and it fits perfectly. In the Reagan house, Prince Dumb-fart places the slipper intended for his love on his own foot, and it fits! My mom being a quick one noticed this and asked my dad why the slipper fit on his foot (my dad wheres a size 12 and my mom and 8)? In a very matter of fact tone my dad responded, "So i can where them when you aren't." Nothing else in this world says, "Merry Christmas, I love you, thanks for birthing my three boys," quite like that. Strike One.

Item #2. Next Christmas, my dad really realized he needed to make up for the poor effort the year before. I figured he would ask for help, but he trusted that good ole noggin of his and came up with two brilliant gifts. A pressure washer and a blender. By the grace of God, my parents ARE still married. Strike Two.

Item #3. After several strong urges to convert to Jehovah's Witness in order to escape the Christmas season and 365 days later, my mom found herself again sitting by the Christmas tree. After opening a silver picture frame from one son, a nice scarf from the other and a colorful necklace from me, my dad came forward with a gift in hand. Snickers and jests were shared among relatives, guessing what this package could hold. I think in the back of my moms head she was hoping for switches and coal. Inside the package was a manual. My dad softly spoke, "Its upstairs waiting for you!" Was it a new car? Was it a piece of artwork? Had my dad finally redeemed himself? "What is it?!" we all proclaimed. Some women might have cried, others might have slapped their husband, but not my mom. She was now a seasoned veteran in this field. A present that implied terrible things had just been given to my mom, and she took it like a champ. That year, many women received jewels and purses, some received exotic vacations and others received heartfelt and sentimental gifts of meaning. Not my mom. She got a Stairmaster Deluxe Step-machine with "over 25 settings to make your weight loss and fat burning dreams come true!" Strike Three.

This year, my mom took my dads credit card and bought herself a present or two. I think she's earned it.