He gives all the gifts I never would.
Plastic that snaps together, aesthetically unpleasant illustrations.
I shun for pricked fingers and late nights, ruined eyesight.
He shops like a drunken sailor and takes all the glory.
The whisper campaign round the breakfast table is, it couldn’t be me
‘C’mon, look at what we got last year.’ Shaking heads shove in one more bite of jammy bread, I half smile.
For one time a year I stand with other moms, picking up and putting back.
Being the Santa I want me to be.

It’s just me being the contrarian. For 51 weeks of the year, I am an immoderate spendthrift. My nominal letting loose the purse strings is always fun. I prefer to have my baseline of make, make do or do without rule our year rather than play it up at gift giving time.


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