It was a few years ago that I was reminded just where I stand with my family.

And I’ve had a hard time letting it go.

I think after reading this you’ll understand why.

It’s not like I normally hold grudges, but this one to me was a biggie. In fact, after you hear this story you’ll wonder why I haven’t found a new family to live with altogether.

But I imagine Jesus would have done the same thing as me. Stayed with his current family and just reminded them every year how much they suck. I’m like Jesus. With a vagina.

Once upon a time, four years ago at Christmastime, my husband took our kids (11, 10, and 3 at the time) to the mall for the obligatory we-better-get-Mom-something-for-Christmas shopping trip.

I stayed home and carefully wrapped presents, pouring all my love and care into tying each bow perfectly. OK, I did that on two of the gifts and then decided that took too fucking long and these people don’t appreciate a perfectly tied bow anyway, so why do I even bother?

And then I opened the wine.

Anyway, less than an hour later the family arrived back home.

Nothing was mentioned or said about the excursion and everyone went about their merry way.

Fast forward a few days to Christmas morning. We were all sitting around the tree, opening presents, oohing and ahhing over the goods, eating cookies for breakfast (which is usually never allowed) and generally being nice to each other.

My husband looked over at me and said, “Honey, aren’t you going to open your gifts?”

Looking around me, I found nothing with my name on it. All the gifts had been distributed and suddenly, there a problem. A BIG problem.  THERE WAS NOTHING FOR ME!

The Dad looked from me to the kids. They had stopped doing whatever they’d been doing and were scrambling around, searching under mounds of tissue paper and opened boxes, apparently looking for gifts for me that weren’t there.

“Hold on,” he said. “Girls, where are Mommy’s presents?”

They shrugged their shoulders in unison.

“You don’t know where they are? What did you do with them after we got home from the mall?”

They looked at each other and then at him. “We didn’t do anything with them,” my 11 year old said.

Just then I got tears in my eyes and I felt my upper lip begin to tremble. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I told myself over and over.

Boy, was this going in my memory bank for life. SCORE!

My husband got up from his seat and began looking in the closets. I can only assume he was hoping to find my gifts–carefully wrapped as I had so carefully wrapped theirs–or not. Whatever.

Just then a thought occurred to me. “Maybe they’re still in the car,” I said in a monotone voice.

My husband turned to face me and said, “No, I know we got them out and wrapped them. Right girls?”

My 10 year old ran out to the garage and minutes later, appeared carrying a couple of shopping bags.

My husband’s face turned the color of Frosty the Snowman.

“Where’d you find the gifts?” And just as he asked that, you could tell he wanted to take it back before he heard the answer.

“They were shoved under the back seat of the SUV,” she chimed happily.

Like *this* was OK.

An audible gulp came from inside his closed mouth.

She handed the bags to me and said, “Merry Christmas, Mommy.”

And then I stabbed them all with my half eaten chocolate chip cookie.

The End.