The Bun, #3, comes home from First Holy Communion, sits on the couch, and unwraps her gift from the parish. “I know what it is,” she says even before the paper is off. It’s a small box, about the size of one of those little hardback children’s missals or mini-Bibles, but she knows better.
#4 leans close to watch.
After some struggle with the tape, our first communicant pulls out a metal-work cross, charming and elegant even seen through the bubble wrap.
Her little sister gasps. “Bubble wrap!”
And is smartly corrected: “That’s my bubble wrap.”
But as I write, no one is playing with the bubble wrap, carefully set aside for just the right occasion. Instead they’re doing music-theater with the florist’s water tubes salvaged from the bottom of the carnation stems.
Kids are the cheapest entertainment.
I mean grankids.
Hehe. At about this age, my father-in-law sent the boy a gift we had suggested, and which, when it arrived, did not interest the boy. After a moment he brightened and said, “Here, you keep that, look, he sent me this cool cardboard box.” And was happy.