Today was the day.

The day I scheduled.

The day I paid for.

The day I mentally rehearsed like a hostage negotiator.

I hired a babysitter.

I finished my chores.

I painted the bathroom drywall repair from the remodel (because of course I remodeled something right before Christmas).

I put on cozy clothes.

I poured a hot cup of coffee.

I set up my wrapping table like a woman who believed in herself for exactly eleven minutes.

Then I moved the pile of crap my husband stacked in front of the closet that holds the wrapping paper.

(I don’t know what’s in that pile. I don’t ask questions anymore.)

I retrieved the sacred wrapping paper box.

I carried it to my wrapping room.

I sat down, hit play on my audiobook, took a sip of coffee, and opened the box.

No Christmas wrapping paper. 

None.

What I did have:

• Birthday wrapping paper

• Wrapping paper with little flying penises

• Wrapping paper that says “Santa Knows You’ve Been a Bitch”

What I did not have:

• Wrapping paper that would not get CPS casually alerted by a concerned relative

So obviously, I had to go to CVS.

I told myself I would just buy four rolls of wrapping paper.

That was the lie.

Because once you enter CVS as a mother, you are no longer shopping  you are being spiritually tested.

I couldn’t just buy wrapping paper.

I had to buy the kids a prize.

Why?

Because bribery is how I parent, and I needed that damn room cleaned.

Then I saw Prosecco.

And thought, That would be good with orange juice.

And then thought, That’s basically a mimosa.

And then thought, I have earned this.

And then as fate would have it I saw a giant Santa.

Fifty percent off.

Did I need a giant Santa?

Absolutely not.

Does my house already look like Santa Land and/or Hobby Lobby threw up?

Yes. Aggressively.

Did I put the Santa in the cart anyway?

Of course I did.

Kismet

Because it was $155 in a cart for later, and later-me could deal with it.

Later-me is always wildly optimistic about her finances and emotional stability.

So there I was.

Leaving CVS.

Wrapping paper finally secured.

Kids bribed.

Prosecco acquired.

A massive Santa riding shotgun.

Ready to go home and wrap the gifts.

And that’s how a perfectly planned, babysitter-funded, coffee-fueled wrapping day turned into…

a CVS receipt long enough to double as emotional evidence.