I would like to share one of my favorite holiday stories of yesteryear. OK, it was last year.
My daughter was five years old and extremely preoccupied with Christmas presents, as one might expect. Since it is a long stretch from Black Friday to Christmas Day, she came up with a fun pastime to fill the giftwrapping void.
At least once a week, often once a day, Izzy would collect items from around the house and either wrap them up or put them in our stockings, and then exclaim delightedly that we had to open our gifts.
As is the case with many parenting experiences, it was equal parts endearing and annoying. Particularly after the fourth time opening a package filled with coasters, tea lights, or one’s own half-used moisturizer.
One particular Saturday morning, Izzy woke me up and invited me to come downstairs with her. Daddy and her three month old sister were sleeping peacefully in bed. My husband is usually very gracious about allowing me to go back to sleep on the weekends; he is up early for work and finds it difficult to return to sleep on Saturdays. I do not have this problem, and greedily accept whatever opportunities are given to sleep in on the weekends.
This time, I thought it would be charitable to allow him to continue sleeping, and Izzy and I crept quietly out of my bedroom and down the stairs. Once out of earshot, she began to shout excitedly, “Santa was here! He left presents for you and Daddy!”
I attempted to muster up some enthusiasm for this tiresome game, and poured myself some coffee as I dutifully joined my daughter under the tree. I halfheartedly opened my brightly wrapped gift, to discover some makeup and cough drops that Izzy must have swiped while we were still asleep. She’s a sneaky little bugger, I’ll give her that.
We let Daddy sleep until 8:30, and then Izzy impatiently declared it was time to give him his gift from Santa. I heard the baby stirring, and agreed it was time to wake him up. I slid into bed next to my husband and Izzy assumed her traditional parent-wake-up position two centimeters from his face.
“Daddy! Daddy! Santa came and he brought you this present!” she said breathlessly, offering him the bundle. Groggily, he sat up and registered the situation. (Parents have to be really good at that, don’t we? Think how often we are awakened in a stupor to deal with some bodily fluid crisis. More times than I care to admit.)
He began to tear the paper off the top of his present, and I recognized almost instantly the bright orange colored cap poking out. I began to giggle uncontrollably. Hubby was still in the dark, and proceeded to pull away the remaining giftwrap, revealing: The magical bottle of KY! At this point I was hysterical, laughing so hard tears were rolling down my cheeks. I wasn’t sure which was funnier, the look on my husband’s face as he realized what his present was, or the image of my daughter craftily swiping the bottle of lube from our bedside table WHILE WE WERE SLEEPING!
Izzy regarded us triumphantly. Kids have a way of knowing when they have done something inappropriate to make grown-ups laugh. If a grown-up is laughing that hard, it must be something really bad.
“It’s bottom lotion, isn’t it?” she asked knowingly. Because that is the logical conclusion a five year old would jump to- all things taboo lead to bottoms or poop. Given her tendency to label my ladyparts in the lump category of “bottom”, she wasn’t far off, and I became even more incoherent.
Izzy beamed with her ability to cause both her parents such glee, and continued to chant, “Bottom lotion! Bottom lotion!” It seemed that without even trying, she had come up with the perfect gift for Mommy and Daddy! Sing it with me ladies, “All I want for Christmas is…decreased vaginal dryness!” (That’s right. I went there.)
I guess if your child is going to snoop around your night table while you sleep, they are bound to come across some goodies. And let’s face it, along with the Lanolin, KY liquid lubricant is a post-partum mommy’s best friend.
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