Dear Kid,

Happy Boxing Day!

Not as in Rocky or Creed (which I enjoyed much more than I thought I would—thank you for “insisting” that we watch the movie together). Rather as in Boxes to Give to People.

The history of Boxing Day goes back to the Middle Ages (as in history, not as in your parents’ age) when the servants all had to work on Christmas so that the upper class (as in the people they worked for) could enjoy the Christmas Holiday without having to, um, work.

The servants were then (sometimes) given the day after Christmas off (after having worked twice as hard to be sure everything was ready for the upper class (as in the people they worked for) as well as working twice as hard the day after Boxing Day to clean up. But they were (often) given Boxing Day off.

And the tradition was that that the merchant class and upper class would take boxes (see where I’m going with this?), fill them with food and gifts, and deliver them to the servants, tradespeople, and other less fortunate types.

Now you know.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Well, I messed up. Big time. I gave the puppy (who I know so well) a gift the other night. I was expecting joyous tail wagging and toy playing. Turned out the toy was the equivalent of giving him doggie underwear. “This? This is a present? You want me to play with this? Ah, no…. and it doesn’t even have the days of the week.”

I don’t know how I could have been so far off the mark. It was squishy (his preferred mouth-feel). It had stuffing (all the better for pulling out), it had a squeaker (all the better for squeaking and then pulling out), and Daddy was willing to throw it.

Booker sniffed. He sniffed again. And then he put his head in the gift box hopping I’d made a mistake and that his real present was still in there. Somewhere.

I felt badly. I really did. No one under the age of 25 wants underwear as a present. Most people over 25 don’t want undies either. And I have never, ever met a puppy who put underwear on the wish list.

So last night I gave him a different present. A toy chipmunk. With a squeaker, and a bit of stuffing. And (a new addition to the puppy toy world) some crinkly stuff in its legs.

Booker sniffed. And without even sniffing again, he took his beloved new toy and trotted away where he could tell it how much he loves it (and by “tell” I mean “gnaw”) without interference (while keeping one eye out for thieves and villains who might think playing Snatch the New Chipmunk would be a fun game). Home run! The human equivalent of a car. Or at least a really cool set of headphones.

In other gift catastrophes, I had an excellent idea for Daddy for his birthday. A truly wonderful idea for the Man Who Is Impossible to Buy For. Im-possible. But I, the amazing wife that I am, came up with the World’s Greatest Idea. Under the guise of “running errands” I went to buy said gift over the weekend.

Except it was three times the amount I was prepared to spend. Yikes! Back to the drawing board (with very little time to draw).

Any and all ideas appreciated.

Love, Mom

P.S. Don’t forget to call Dad to say Happy Birthday!

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