Lulu (18 year old daughter), Thaddeus (25 year old son) and the ‘Son Who Can’t Be Named’ (SWCBN) were over last night enjoying the regular Monday night Spag Bol for dinner.
The Chihuahua and Fox Terrier sat jealously slavering on the sidelines hoping for them to drop something.
After receiving useless, but highly competitively selected Christmas presents from the five kids over the years (I know it’s the thought that counts isn’t it? But I did go through 45 months of vicious morning sickness, an unnatural aversion to coffee and forced Chardonnay abstinence for them. Not to mention five horrible labours and lots of boring parent teacher interviews), I’d decided to take a stance.
“I'd really like you all to put in twenty dollars each for a restaurant voucher for my Chrissy present please,” I politely requested.
“I’m putting you in charge, SWCBN,” I added, because he seemed like the most obvious being the bossiest and most domineering and all.
“How am I supposed to collect all the money from everyone?” SWCBN responded gruffly.
“I don’t know… that’s your bloody job, my dear!” I huffed.
“But you can’t expect me to drive all the way to Hagar’s place to collect twenty bucks from him?” he complained.
“Internet. Fudging. Banking?” I pipped.
“Can’t you just ask Hagar for the money and give it to me?” he bleated piteously.
“Isn’t that defeating the purpose of me getting a moderately priced but pseudo-surprise Christmas present?” I retorted. "Like...if I have to collect all the money?"
“But you’ll already know what you’re going to get mother,” he responded.
“You know we’re all working now so we’ll all be buying you something extra anyway, Mother,” Lulu interjected.
“NOOOO! That’s want I want to avoid! Because if you spend all your cash on my present then I’ll have to pay for your lunch every day the following week, or for your tyre re-treads the next week or your motor vehicle insurance. Just twenty fudging bucks each. That’s all I fudging ask. Together. That’s all. We’ll get a lovely romantic lunch or dinner for that,” I pleaded.
“Where do you want the voucher to be for?” asked an attentive but brooding Thaddeus.
“Michel’s! That lovely French restaurant! I’d love that! We’d get a top of the range meal for one hundred bucks there!” I replied excitedly.
“What if they don’t do vouchers?” someone asked.
“Why wouldn’t they do vouchers for cripe’s sake?” I asked, suddenly beginning to suspect this task was being relegated to the too fudging hard basket.
“Maybe they don’t. What’s an alternative mother?”
“Fudging McDonald’s then!” I yelled. “Buy me a damn Maccas voucher! Is it too much to ask for something I’d really actually like that won't inevitably cost me a fortune because you’ll all be fudging broke after Christmas?”
There was silence after that.
Everyone picked at their Spaghetti Bolognese and the dogs sat slinking unctuously in the corner licking their butts.
I think I killed Christmas a little bit.
My prayers and thoughts to the victims and families of the Martin Place siege 16.12.14.
After receiving useless, but highly competitively selected Christmas presents from the five kids over the years (I know it’s the thought that counts isn’t it? But I did go through 45 months of vicious morning sickness, an unnatural aversion to coffee and forced Chardonnay abstinence for them. Not to mention five horrible labours and lots of boring parent teacher interviews), I’d decided to take a stance.
“I'd really like you all to put in twenty dollars each for a restaurant voucher for my Chrissy present please,” I politely requested.
“I’m putting you in charge, SWCBN,” I added, because he seemed like the most obvious being the bossiest and most domineering and all.
“How am I supposed to collect all the money from everyone?” SWCBN responded gruffly.
“I don’t know… that’s your bloody job, my dear!” I huffed.
“But you can’t expect me to drive all the way to Hagar’s place to collect twenty bucks from him?” he complained.
“Internet. Fudging. Banking?” I pipped.
“Can’t you just ask Hagar for the money and give it to me?” he bleated piteously.
“Isn’t that defeating the purpose of me getting a moderately priced but pseudo-surprise Christmas present?” I retorted. "Like...if I have to collect all the money?"
“But you’ll already know what you’re going to get mother,” he responded.
“You know we’re all working now so we’ll all be buying you something extra anyway, Mother,” Lulu interjected.
“NOOOO! That’s want I want to avoid! Because if you spend all your cash on my present then I’ll have to pay for your lunch every day the following week, or for your tyre re-treads the next week or your motor vehicle insurance. Just twenty fudging bucks each. That’s all I fudging ask. Together. That’s all. We’ll get a lovely romantic lunch or dinner for that,” I pleaded.
“Where do you want the voucher to be for?” asked an attentive but brooding Thaddeus.
“Michel’s! That lovely French restaurant! I’d love that! We’d get a top of the range meal for one hundred bucks there!” I replied excitedly.
“What if they don’t do vouchers?” someone asked.
“Why wouldn’t they do vouchers for cripe’s sake?” I asked, suddenly beginning to suspect this task was being relegated to the too fudging hard basket.
“Maybe they don’t. What’s an alternative mother?”
“Fudging McDonald’s then!” I yelled. “Buy me a damn Maccas voucher! Is it too much to ask for something I’d really actually like that won't inevitably cost me a fortune because you’ll all be fudging broke after Christmas?”
There was silence after that.
Everyone picked at their Spaghetti Bolognese and the dogs sat slinking unctuously in the corner licking their butts.
I think I killed Christmas a little bit.
My prayers and thoughts to the victims and families of the Martin Place siege 16.12.14.
Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT
