Blessed little angels

The space under the Christmas tree was covered with presents, as was the space above it - a hamock was snuggling twice as many presents as were on the floor. We arrived a little late, at about half past ten, and the little ones had been waiting all along to be allowed to open the presents. "Grandad K", a.k.a. Humbug the Grumpy, walked in half awake and said "right, this year, you're each going to have one present, and we'll send the rest to people in Uganda." Little 6-year old goldilock refused ("NO!") but covered up her lack of human solidarity with a more restricted solidarity, if only a political one ("but we'll share with everyone in this house"). And then the butchering feasts started: Grumpy prepared the goose, pheasant and duck for his Bird in a Bird in a Bird in the kitchen, while Goldilock and her little brother grabbed packet after packet and orgasmically released them of their wrapping, and, without looking who it came from or what it contained, moved on to the next. My stomach grew queasy as masses of unnecessary plastic consumer goods piled up on the floor, while a mountain of frivolously wasted paper formed in another corner of the room. Instincts of property and selfishness swelled up ("No it's MINE", "Look Dady, it's mine! It's MY car!"). Goldilocks seemed perfectly happy with her pile of presents until her little brother was given his first bike.

The last Christmas I experienced with a little child covered with presents was at Ex Boyfriend's brother's house. Ex Boyfriend's niece, then 4 or 5, turned over the course of one day from a spontaneous, charming little girl, into a sickening, superficial, image-aware starlet. At that point, I already silently swore to myself that I would never do that to my own children. Giving and sharing is beautiful, but orgiac consumerist debauchery has no appeal. I didn't even really see any joy in the kids' eyes that would make it worth it. Ggh.