. . .the politeness of princes.*
And something that eludes me when it comes to birthday presents.
This Thursday, I am thankful for nieces and nephews who seem to forgive me even though I never get their birthday presents to them on time.
Honestly, I really don’t know why that is. I must have some deep psychological block, because I am very organized and prompt about other things. It’s not like I forget their birthdays. Often, I think of the birthday a month in advance. I think, Oh! Look! Nephew A’s birthday is next month. I wonder what he would like? Then I do absolutely nothing about it.
As the impending anniversary of Nephew A’s nativity impends a little closer, I think, Golly! Nephew A! I’ve got to get him a present. I think of possibilities. I ponder toys and books and–I don’t know–drum sets (because you never actually have to forgive your siblings for hogging the sofa during The Mary Tyler Moore Show). And I do absolutely nothing about it.
About a week out, I think, I absolutely, positively, without-a-doubt must get that present off to Nephew A.
And. . .I do absolutely nothing about it.
At a certain point, short of FedEx or other overnight delivery options, it’s just too late. It’s not going to get there on time.
At that point, it turns into a phone call. An I’m-sorry-but-your-birthday-present-is-going-to-be-late-please-don’t-hate-me phone call. (And maybe that’s the point? An excuse to talk to those long-distance, too busy with the Wii or the iPod or the iPad or the television kids?)
I don’t know.
I’ll try to do better, although I’ve been saying that for years.
Meantime, I’m really thankful they don’t hate me.
* Louis XVIII
