The Scary Truth of Becoming My Mom at Christmas

“Mom, this is stuuuuupid. Buying and wrapping your own present,” I scoffed as my mother unwrapped another gift from ‘Santa’.

“Who else’s gonna buy me gifts?” she oohs and ahhs over a spatula.

“But why act all surprised???? It’s sooooo dumb. Dumb dumb DUMB!”

Fast forward thirty-five years. My kids are the age I was then. The houseplant-cum-Christmas tree has three ornaments on it and a few gifts below it. Some of which are for me.

Three new alpaca dryer balls. A pair of sky-colored socks that are softer than a bunny’s butt.

Smothered in tissue paper with a makeshift tag.

“To Mom. Love Santa.”

Unwrapping them, I’ll probably bawl as I succumb to the scary truth of becoming my own mother.

Is that the greatest gift of all? Or the very worst?

Thanks, Santa.