Merry Christmas Micky

My favorite time of the year you ask? The end of it! I sat down to address my readers and reflect on the year that has passed. As I did I remembered that the only good year is one that is ending.

The good news is, Christmas is over! Although I love the meaning it holds and the purpose it celebrates, the commercial crap that has infested an otherwise beautiful holiday has made it less then my favorite time of the year. However, I often buy in to it...

This year, I visited my parents Christmas morning as I have in years past, but this year I had a most disturbing surprise. There was not a single present under the tree for Mike! Not One! I rummaged under the tree, moving from present to present and yet, nothing. There was one from my brother for me, made out to "him." (A name he had given me the year he decided to stop using my name in conversation.) But that was it. Nothing else.

I began to scan the past year in my mind, trying to figure out what I could have done to cause such a thing. What could a child do to cause their parents enough grief, to not get them a single gift on Christmas morning. So I sprung to my feet, (not unlike a jungle cat,) and ran to where my father sat on the couch sipping his Paps, to find out what was going on.



"what gives Biological Father?!" (This was a name my father assigned to himself long ago. He wanted anyone in ear shot to know it was the only reason he was associated with me...)



"What is it Chris?"



"Mike!"



"Whatever"



"I don't have any presents under the tree... what happened?"



"Well for starters, you were born. And the rest pretty much writes itself..."



I realized I wasn't going to get anything out of him, and remembered the last present he had given me. It was a headstone, you could still make out the previous name, mine was etched in above it.
"For the inevitable!" he would yell. "Always be prepared!"



So I sat quietly under the tree one last time and started sifting through the gifts... "To: Tony"... "To: Roni"... "To: Mailman"... and "To: Micky."



"Micky?" I thought to myself. I began to tear open his presents in a blind rage! "Whose Micky!?" I yelled across the house. Then my heart sunk when I opened the first box. My parents have been getting me a pack of Marlboro Reds every year since my 5th birthday. "Hasten the inevitable!" my dad would always say. But this year, they gave it to Micky. I quickly opened the next box. It was a small section of dryer lint. It was still warm to the touch and had a note attached.

"Please enjoy the beginning of your new sweater." From- Cindy, Biological Father, Tony, and Roni.

That is when it hit me. I AM MICKY! It wasn't a terrible Christmas after all, my mom had just spelled my name wrong, on every single one of my presents.

I know what you are thinking,
"Isn't that insulting Mike? They spelled your name wrong, and not just once, but every single present!"


But you know what, when you are a middle child, and some of you out there can relate. You just take it where you can get it. And if that means your parents forget your name, no biggy. I sat tall that day, touched the small patch of lint to my cheek and felt the warmth it held... Why be sad? After all, I just got myself a new sweater.