In a sad miscarriage of postal justice, Kirby's Christmas box arrived today. We sprung for priority mail, and a priority mail tape and sticker were put on, but it was insufficient to get it on a plane instead of a truck, apparently. Two other packages mailed the same day at the same time did arrive two days before Christmas.
For the past two weeks I've felt like a really, terrible, horrible mother. The first year one of my children wasn't home for Christmas, he had nothing. Zip. Poor Kirby! (Kirby handled it better than I did.)
On Christmas Eve, by internet/modem/magic, he played Guitar Hero and Halo 3 with Marty and Holly, so they were all together, sort of, with them keeping him from being as really alone at home without gifts as he actually was.
When he called and said the box was there, he was on his way to work and was going to take it and open it there. There are half a dozen little gifts, nothing earth-shattering, not a laptop like Marty and Holly got (Kirby already had a very spiff computer, better than they had then or have now).
Oh yeah, that Guitar Hero they were playing? Gift from Kirby. Yeah. His gift to us arrived. Our gifts to him did too! (January 5.)
Twelve Days of Christmas is a cute song (once every three or four years) but it should have nothing to do with real gift delivery!
I feel way, WAY better now.