We were hanging out at my parents' house a lot over the holidays. One night, my son was tired, overstimulated, and frankly, had spent too damn much time around too damn many people. He mouthed off at somebody and stomped off to be by himself and cool down.
Dad shot me a smirk, and I made some remark to the effect of recognizing where he gets some of that charm. I doubt that either of you who reads this will be particularly shocked by my assertion that I can occasionally (ha!) be somewhat surly and rude myself, particularly when I've gotten more of people than I can handle.
All right, I'm moody as fuck.
So anyway, at that point, Dad reminded me of a story he'd told me ages ago, which I'd nearly forgotten. I dragged kidzookie back in immediately, so he could hear it from The Old Man himself.
The story takes place when Dad was a pretty little kid. My grandmother was off at the hospital to give birth to my twin aunts. Grandpop needed to do something with Dad, so he dropped him off with my great-grandfather.
My aunts were born at Christmas, so the typical decorations were about. Dad, the story goes, was bored, and eventually figured out that by popping the glass orbs on the tree just right with his knuckles, he could shatter them. Suddenly, he was much more entertained.
My great-grandfather watched Dad pop a few bulbs, then tried to stop the misbehavior with typical grandparently kindness: he went over to Dad, and said, "Billy, if you break one more of those ornaments, Grandpop's not gonna like you any more."
Dad, I'm told, thought this over for a minute, popped another ornament, and told him, "I don't like you, either."
