My mom was a super affectionate gift-givey person. My dad is affectionate in like a “I think I’ve met you once and you disappointed me” kind of way unless you’re his grandkid and then ka-Ching: the sky has opened and it’s raining CVS gifts and piggy back rides.
This all made for a great upbringing. My mom would buy us stuff and my dad would shake his head at how spoiled we were which only made it more evident to us how special it was that we could roll around naked on a pile of mom-bought cabbage patch kids like we accepted a filthy offer.
Balance is life, people.
As a parent though, this leaves me somewhere in the grey zone where I love to buy my kids presents almost as much as I love to hate myself for doing so. Like self-flagellating with a pool noodle. (Yes, another pool noodle reference. Do you understand now just how violent the noodle situation is? Also I dare you to type flagellating without first accidentally typing flatulating.)
Today is Amazon Prime Day. Which means I woke up sweating with twitching iPhone fingers at 3 am (midnight pacific, obvs) because my body knew THE DAY had arrived and my brain has long ago succumbed to the lack of will power in my frontal cortex. (Don’t fact check that.)
At 7:52 am, or 3 kindles, 4 pairs of swim googles, a food dehydrator, 6 solar-powered garden lights and 3 deleted and refilled carts later, I’m heading downstairs to see my husband, Mr. Reasonable (not his real name). My guess is he will approve the garden lights, question the kindles, toss the goggles and avoid the dehydrator because he knows his limits and our kids will end up better for it.
Or, we’ll have a pretty sweet garage sale in September when we are bored of all the aforementioned crap we haven’t yet broken or put aside to return but didn’t return because come on let’s be real nobody returns to amazon.
God, I love today. Happy Prime Day, friends. Be safe out there.