The Nightmare After Christmas

Christmas morning, for me, was blissful. Everything was perfect, or as close to perfect as Christmas morning can be at our house. The stockings were filled, there was a roaring fire in the fireplace, carols played on the cd player. Everyone took their time opening gifts, letting out appropriate “oohs” and “aaaahs” and exclaiming how they had always wanted that exact item.  It was like something out of a Hallmark movie.

Until . . .

Until it was time for our dear children to play with their toys. This year, Mark and I decided that our children were technologically deprived, so we tried to catch them up to the rest of their peers. There were hand-held games and MP3 players and computerized guitars. Mimi and Poppy even joined in, and purchased a Wii for our kids.

What were we thinking?

You see, all of those things require some level of technological savvy to make them work. Otherwise, they’re just a bunch of wires and discs in a box. A bunch of blasted, doggone, confounded wires and discs which speak a language I have never learned.

I am too old to have kids this age. Seriously. My poor kids can’t have any cool stuff, because their parents are too dumb to know how to make anything like that work. Next year, I’m going to hire a twenty-something techie to come to our house on Christmas morning, just so our kids can play with their toys.

Honestly. Our parents had it so easy when we were kids. All they had to do was make sure we had the right sized batteries. Open a toy, find a plug outlet, and we were good. Or better yet – locate the on/off switch.

Ka-Bam. Instant fun.

Now, there is no fun to be had until you’ve uploaded, downloaded, installed, connected to the internet, purchased the additional online settings . . . it’s insane. And it nearly drove me insane.

One particular item just about did me in. I spent hours on the computer, trying to figure out this dad-gum hand-held computer game. It’s hand-held, for goodness’ sake. When I bought it, I thought all it needed was some batteries and an on-off switch.

Boy, was I wrong. After three hours, I emerged from my room, wild-eyed, hair standing on end, and I had the shakes. I couldn’t even speak properly; I was stuttering.

Mark and the kids looked at me as one might look at a rabid animal. “Set the game down, and back away slowly,” Mark said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or the kids.

“I c-c-can’t m-make it w-w-work,” I told them.

With manly force, Mark spoke again. “Put the game down, and step away!”

I obeyed.

Fortunately, the kids had more than enough fun to keep them occupied, even without the hand-held game. After some recovery time with some low-tech therapy (cleaning out my closet), I am now speaking without a stutter. And yes, we eventually got the little game working just fine. So all’s well that ends well, right?

Speaking of high-tech gadgets, I’m now in the market for a time travel machine. Next Christmas, I plan to travel back to the 1950’s.

“Do not say, ‘Why were the old days better than these?’ For it is not wise to ask such questions,” Ecclesiastes 7:10.