It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like What?
September 22, 2014
Posted By: Shaunescy
The fall colors came, some kind of natural alarm clock. My crabapple trees are golden, aspens are beginning their glittery shimmy. The kids noticed it right away as we were driving to school this fine morning.
“Mom, look at the trees! That means snow will be here soon. And. . . Chriiiistmaaas!” My son says with an impish smile. My daughter giggles in the back seat. Why are they giggling? Well, because outside of December, I, the grinchy-est of grinches, have banned Christmas talk.
Banned is a strong word, but seriously, I just can’t handle holiday cartoons or music or the incessant pleas of, “Can I have a super deluxe American Girl doll house with a remote controlled helicopter landing pad for Christmas?”
They tend to dream BIG. It doesn’t stop them from asking when I give them a comical scolding. But I love those little pirates, so I’ve let this become our rat-a-tat banter.
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Since he broached the topic yet again, I asked my son if he knew what Christmas was about.
“Sure, it’s about sharing and caring and treating each other nicely,” he says.
“And it’s about presents!” his sister pipes in.
What do naughty kids get?
“A chunk of coal.”
You might think that son, but your father is from Idaho, so the tradition in our family is that you’d get a wrapped up potato.
“What! I’ve never heard that, mom.”
Yep, it’s true, And it’s not even cooked. Just a big ol’ raw potato. It get’s delivered by J.R. Simplot. The Potato King.
“No way. You’re making this up.”
No, son. . . I haven’t even had my second cup of coffee. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. J.R. Simplot is the guy who figured out how to freeze dry potatoes and he sold them to the troops during World War II. Now, he delivers potatoes to naughty kids, like Santa does with presents.
You know how every state is famous for something, we’re the Big Sky state, Wisconsin is dairy, and Idaho is all about potatoes. Every family is different based on where their parents are from.
Man, those poor kids with parents from Wisconsin have it rough. You know how we kinda hope you’ll sleep in a little bit on Christmas. Not those kids – nothing worse than a thimble full of sour milk in your stocking. That smell lingers all day.
“What if dad was from Colorado?" He smirks.
I don’t know, deer or antelope poop maybe.
[Not very mature, I know but poop jokes always work. ]
“What about Washington D.C.?”
Oh yeah, those kids get bags of hot air. Kinda like balloons, but way less fun.
"Why's that?"
Nobody knows, son.
They are quiet for an entire moment. Then his sister asks, "Mom, can I have a pony?"
An imaginary one? Sure!
All my best, BunnyFufu ~ The Housewife
