When Christmas comes early...

Christmas came to our house rather early this year...unannounced, and certainly not invited. I spent a good three hours this past Saturday wrapping presents for the kids. I likely could have polished it off in under an hour, but the constant interruptions and attempts to peak and "come help" mercilessly dragged out the painful process, destroying much of the afternoon.

The next day I left the house. For 42 minutes. That would be 18 minutes less than an hour. Under the attentive supervision of my spouse, the kids somehow managed to take all the presents from under the tree, transport them downstairs and open every. single. last. one. of. them. They tore into those things like a pack of fucking piranhas. At first I didn't know what was going on...I just saw three big heaps of wrapping paper. Noting my pending tsunami of rage, Jack calmly informed me that he had ordered his siblings up and down the stairs to get the gifts, while he sorted them into piles for each of them "...cause I'm the only one who can read who they're for." Did I mention my husband was no more than 10 feet away from the tree, deeply immersed in a crossword, as this covert mission of extreme stealth was taking place up and down the stairs? Oh yes, he was. SEAL Team 6 has nothing on my kids.

Surprisingly, I didn't have a complete mental breakdown. However I did unleash a rather marvellous two-minute stream of robust threats and unmentionable obscenities, prompting the following responses:

2-year old: Me no do it! (look of absolute fright, which subsequently progressed to a sharting of the diaper...)

4-year-old: Jack made me do it! (eyes welling with tears, followed by a dramatic collapse into a heap on the floor...)

7-year-old: Mom, we just couldn't wait. (cold stare of a sociopath...no apologies...no look of remorse...)

40-year old: nervously glanced in opposite direction, avoiding eye contact all together...he must have been thinking of a 7-letter word for shameless incompetence...how about asshole?

One can only imagine the mood I was in...therefore it goes without saying that the day only got better. I decided to cool off and frame some photos that I got printed as gifts for my parents. At some point, I thought that maybe I should clean the glass before putting the pictures in. Who likes dirty glass, right? So I went and grabbed the Windex and started spraying. And I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed, cause damn, that glass was fingered up good. I then proceeded to scrub the stuff off, but the shit was leaving streaks that would have frozen 'ole Martha's heart. I was like, "What's up with this mother-f*cking Windex?" I went to toss it in the bin, thinking it must be old, and only then did I notice that it was OxyClean laundry stain remover. Same bottle. Same colour. Me no read.

I then decided I had better "walk it off for a bit", and went strolling into the living room. I rounded the corner and tripped over Jack, a pile of wrapping paper, tape and a pair of scissors. When I asked him what in (the holy) Christ's name he was doing, he looked up at me, with a somewhat hopeful expression and stated: "Christmas is for giving, Mommy. I'm wrapping these up for all those poor little kids in the hospital." To which I replied: "Good try, you little turd. That's not what you're doing. You're wrapping up the presents that you don't like." His ploy to get back in the good books was a little too transparent, even for a very tired Mommy. He certainly wasn't wrapping up his new helicopter, was he? Oh, no. But that educational puzzle? That shit was about to get donated.

And this is the moment my lovely spouse decided to (bravely) approach me and inquire whether or not "we" should re-wrap the presents. After gleefully imagining slowly suffocating him with a pillow, I said no. Why in God's name would I re-wrap toys that were already being played with? Plus the stuff not being played with was in the process of being donated to poor little sick kids in the hospital. You'd have to be Satan to stop that. I also informed my beloved that his use of the collective term "we" was not appreciated, nor welcomed, as his ever-helpful self was certainly not present during the initial 3-hour wrapping session.

But the proverbial salt on the wound? That came a few hours later, when I overheard Jack telling Peanut the following: "If I do get coal for Christmas, then I'm lucky. Because that stuff's expensive." I believe this was the exact moment I screwed open the bottle of OxyClean and drank it.

This Christmas season, I'm officially taking a knee. I'm all done. I'm like the little Drummer Boy...sing it with me... "I have no gifts to bring, pa-rum-pa-pa-pum." True statement.

Wait, did someone say rum?

Dear Santa,
Do you know what I want for Christmas?
A big bag of mushrooms and a padded room.
And maybe a tall glass of water.
But I guess a 5-hour van ride with three kids is what I get.
You say tomato, I say narcotics.
One of these years we'll agree on something.
Love, Janita

I leave you with this video clip of Jack receiving his pre-Christmas message from Santa, which of course clearly indicates that he has veered rather dangerously into naughty territory, with a warning that he'll have to try a little harder. (I may or may not have ordered this little ruby up as a special, heartfelt gift for him.)

Highlights:

1. Peanut randomly inquiring, "Hey Santa, do you know me?"
2. Jack bolding declaring (before the verdict was read), "There's no such thing as a naughty list."
3. Jack informing me that it's OK to get coal,"...cause coal in a long time turns into diamonds." I swear I don't teach him this shit. I really should, but it's not coming from me.
4. Officially landing on the naughty list (and finding out it really does exist) is apparently so funny, that it forces one to fall off their chair. And in the process, almost crushing the gifts packed up to go to Manitoba, including the OxyClean-ed photos I framed. Lucky for him, he didn't break those. That would not have ended well.
5. Peanut's absolute delight that Jack has landed on the naughty list...she sits there chortling at the end, shoulders shaking up and down saying, "OK, let's watch his again because it's so funny." I relish the thought that I'm raising children who are thrilled by the demise of others. Please give me a moment, while I sit here bathed in pride.

Later that night, when the dizzy joy of being psychotic wore off, I found Jack crying in his bunk bed. When I asked him what was wrong, he whimpered: "I don't want to be on the naughty list. It's so creepy. BUT I JUST DON'T HAVE TIME TO TURN THIS AROUND!" Incidentally, this may go down as the sentence of the year. Maybe Santa will be coming after all.

Merry Christmas, friends. May 2014 bring you all that's good. Within reason, of course. We certainly wouldn't want to get spoiled, now would we....xo