The other day we were getting out of the car at the park and my phone rang. I walked around and opened Jackson's door but I was also listening to my boss go blah blah blah OSHA blah URGENT blah. So when Jackson, correctly guessing that he needed to kill a little time, asked if I'd please open the trunk so he could look inside, I whispered "Sure, honey" and popped it open with the key remote. One thing I love is my boss calling me on my day off to give me a list things I need to do the next day, to, you know, clear his own mental filofax, and inevitably whenever I take his call I'm nowhere near a piece of paper or a pen. The closest thing handy at that point were some ants. You know, so I could squeeze out their blood and scratch out a note to myself on a leaf.

So I'm listening and making what mental notes are possible on my sad little Post-it pad of a postpartum brain, and Jackson's standing there looking in the trunk going, "What's in that bag?" And I kind of absently say, "No, you can't look in that bag, it's Christmas presents for you."

You know how when you say something, and then you go, "Wait! No! Delete! Delete! Do not publish! Save as draft!"? You don't tell a three-year-old that you have his Christmas presents in the trunk of your car. You just don't. It's a delicious recipe for Boy Meltdown with a side of ham.

In order to salvage the situation, I instantly assessed that these were my choices for a response:

(a) "You made the baby Jesus cry by being so selfish, now you can never, ever have any Christmas presents!" and slam his little hands in my trunk lid;

(b) "Okay, you can have ONE PRESENT now, but if you ask me for another early Christmas present ever again I will slam your little hands in my trunk lid";

(c) "Here, open them all, my little darling sweetiemuffin *sob* I can't bear to see you cry!"

(d) "Fuck that, where are MY presents, bitch?"