I understood why we had called him Father Christmas, the Pater figure bringing home presents to his children, to all of us. I never did find out what was in the green bag at my daughter’s feet. After all, it wasn’t for me. My present was her smile.
“Actually, you told me never to talk to strangers. I think I’d better follow that advice.”
Thanksgiving Day is time for a recitation of all the shit for which I am thankful – starting with inclusive altruism.
“Daddy, if you die, I’ll probably go on anti-depressants.”
They were Big Kids Now, by gum, and just to show us how great and big they were, they had decided to change one another’s diapers. I was in therapy for Post Traumatic Shit Disorder for months. I still can’t have beans, or look at certain Jackson Pollack paintings, without relapsing and screaming for the wipes.