Commando kids are not only highly physical, they express their emotions with great gusto. They also possess a certain savoir faire—they know just how they want each scene in their military theatre to be played (yes, scene is the right word, I think); they want every detail to materialize precisely as they have envisioned it; and they let you, the actors, know if you didn’t do execute your role in their mini-drama correctly. They frequently will demand do-overs or, in the case of Christmas Eve at the front lines, they'll requisition a re-gifting.
I always have let my children open one gift from me on Christmas Eve—and amazingly, it’s always a new pair of pajamas. By Christmas, they always need a new set or two, and by getting them Christmas Eve, I ensure that at least once a year they have something cute—and matching—to wake up in and have Christmas morning pictures taken in.
Apparently, commando kids don’t believe clothing is a proper gift.
My son relegated me to the ranks of Bad Mommy for giving him pajamas—cute, green, skiing tyrannosaurus p.j.s with a button-up shirt just the way he likes.
"This present is NOT fun," he pronounced upon ripping open the paper only to discover that it was the anti-toy, and he roundly refused to wear the offending sleepwear.
Alas, the pajamas would have matched so well the new, 18-inch green bike that Santa left later for Christmas morning.
At least Santa gave the right presents—he will be permitted to return for another tour next year.
I may not be so lucky!
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