After the kids were tucked in, my husband and I wrapped their gifts, chuckling in hushed tones over their gift-giving gusto for us this year.
“They wrapped half their bedrooms and put it under the tree,” I said, exaggerating slightly.
“I think they used up two new rolls of scotch tape just today,” my husband observed.
“They’ve pointed out several times we’re the ones getting the most presents this year. I think what they’re really saying is: ‘Where are my presents?’”
“That’s exactly what they’re saying.” My husband shot me a knowing smile.
We had a good laugh come Christmas.
We unwrapped quite a collection of random plastic pieces, unwanted books, assorted broken pencils, scrap paper, and three pairs of gently used – but clean – Disney princess underwear. But hey, at six and seven years old the kids were learning to give.
We discarded all but three items. (And no, they weren’t the princess underwear.)
One keeper was a package of post-its I’d bought myself and handed to my son in the midst of one of his wrapping sprees. He had happily run for yet another roll of tape.
The other two gifts were picked out with their father’s approval and paid for with their father’s money.
My kids were my gentle wake-up call.
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