費斯·安德魯·貝得福特/Faith Andrews Bedford
One of the nice things about having grown children is that I no longer have to bug them about writing thank-you notes. When they were little, all three would dictate thank-yous that I would include with drawings they’d made of their presents. By the time Eleanor, Sarah and Drew were old enough to write own thank-you notes, however, they would do so only with much prodding.
“Have you written to thank Grandy for the book yet?”I’d ask.“What did you say to Aunt Dorothy about that sweater?”Invariably, I’d be met with mumbles and shrugs.
One year, in the days following Christmas, I’d grown weary of nagging. The children had become mother-deaf. Frustrated, I declared that no one would be allowed to play with a new toy or wear a new outfit until the appropriate thank-you notes had been mailed. Still they procrastinated and grumbled.
Something snapped.“Everyone into the car.”I said.
“Where are we going?”Sarah asked, bewildered.
“To buy a Christmas present.”
“But it’s after Christmas.”she protested, putting on her coat.
“No arguing,”I said in a tone that meant exactly that.
The kids piled into the car.“You’re going to see just how much time those who care about you spend when they give you a present.”I told them.
Handing Drew a pad of paper and a pencil, I said,“Please mark down the time we left home.”
When we reached the village, Drew noted our arrival time. The children helped me select presents for my sisters at a local shop. Then we turned around and drove home.
Bursting free from the confines of the car, the children headed for their sleds.“Not so fast,”I said.“We’ve got to wrap the presents.”The kids slouched inside.
“Drew,”I asked,“did you note the time we got home?”He nodded.“Okay, please time the girls while they wrap the presents.”
I made the Children cocoa as they wrapped the presents. When they’d tied the last bow, they looked up expectantly.“How long did this all take?”I asked Drew.