The Gift of the Real Bad Mommy

So, wanting to be a good, dutiful parent rearing a sweet and culturally literate child, in honor of the season I just read my nine-year-old son "The Gift of the Magi," by O. Henry. We got to the end of the story, and my voice cracked just a little on those last sentences about how the idiots who sold their best stuff to buy presents for each other were wiser than the wise men who brought presents to baby Jesus. I smiled at my son and shut the book. "So, what do you think?"

He looked absolutely traumatized. "I HATE that story!" he screamed.

"Honey, come on. What's the matter? You mean, because they don't get to use their presents, because, well, they won't work?"

He nodded. "Think about it this way," I said. "I'll bet that those two carry those presents around with them every day, and every time they look at them, they think about how much they love each other. And that's the greatest present of all."

He wasn't buying it. "Sweetie," I tried again. "Her hair will grow back and she'll be able to wear those combs pretty soon. And they'll get rich and he can buy his watch back."

"How?"

"From the pawn broker. I'll bet that's where he sold it."

A demand for more information here, ending with, "But it would take so long to get enough money, he wouldn't be able to get his watch back."

"Well, then, he could get a really good watch just like his."

"But it wouldn't be the same!"

"Well, not exactly, but -- "

"It wouldn't be as good! It wouldn't be as old! It wouldn't be the same!" And then, just to make sure that I understood the real issue here, "I HATE this story!"

So, since I hadn't been a bad enough mommy yet, I let him stay up late and watch a video so he wouldn't go to bed all depressed, with that story the last thing he experienced right before bed.