Thanksgiving is fast approaching and I’m so excited. Of course, you wouldn’t know it around here because we don’t live in the United States of America (maybe you’ve heard of it).
No, here in Australia, your homeland, they’re already focusing on Christmas. Decorations are up in the shopping malls and the terrifying Christmas Warehouse is already offering desperate discounts.
But even though my explanation of the 4th of July did not go very well, I would like to teach you the real significance of Thanksgiving.
Until now, you’ve never been ready to understand a complicated holiday like Thanksgiving.
In fact, when you were younger, you pronounced it “Spanksgiving” and you thought that was hilarious. And once you said “Let us all give spanks” before a meal, but I thought maybe that was a crack about the fact that I wear Spanx, which actually is not a fact. I don’t wear Spanx, son. I don’t.
Anyway, your mother and I grew up celebrating Thanksgiving on the last Thursday of every November. The day commemorates the peaceful coming together of Europeans and natives in the New World. It was a day of happy union and understanding preceded and followed by a great deal of bloodshed and a lack of understanding. But generally people try to remember the good things in life for which we are thankful.
For example, this year, I’m more thankful than ever for my family – especially you, my little miracle baby (it doesn’t matter how old you get, you’ll always be my baby), and your mother, my special lady friend.
Something I’m not so thankful for? My missing collection of loose change.
I took a lot of time to organise all that change so I could deposit in the bank, son, and now all those little plastic baggies are gone.
I’m not saying you stole them, but I saw the way you were staring at me while I was organising everything. You were practically drooling. And you kept asking if you could “hold the gold”. You were acting like Golem in Lord of the Rings. Did you see how things turned out for that guy? Not great, son. Not great.
Now, I don’t want the lesson here to be that looking for missing money is more important than being thankful for family and friends.
But right now it is.
That’s Daddy’s money, son. His dough. His cash. You don’t mess with Daddy’s paper. Or, in this case, his coins.
You have your own coins. They’re large and plastic only a fool would mistake them for actual currency, but they’re yours. You don’t see Daddy sneaking around your room, grabbing up your fake coins and taking them into his room, do you?
First of all, no offence, but Daddy doesn’t want your fake crap. And second of all, Daddy wants to respect what’s yours. In return, all Daddy asks is that you not move his cheddar. That you leave his loot alone. That’s Daddy’s mazuma. He’s worked hard for those coconuts and he wants them back! He needs them!!
It’s okay. I’m okay.
Son, Daddy wants to buy an iPad mini.
There, he admitted it.
And the best way to do that without your mother finding out is to use the shrapnel he saves up. There are hundreds of simoleons in there! This isn’t Mickey Mouse moolah. This isn’t Wiggles wampum. This is real. You need to give me my scratch!
Give it to me!!
Okay, let’s all relax. I’m sure the coin bags are around here somewhere. I’m sure they’ll turn up at some poi –
Give it to me!! I want it!!!
Oh, god, I’m losin’ it…