You Say It's Your Birthday . . .Dearest Daughter,
They say the internet is forever, and it is possible that you'll stumble across this when you are a grown-up person. You may not want to continue reading if you find yourself as an adult with any "issues" about your upbringing.
I sent a small fortune to your mother to pay for half of some Nintendo thing. But since that thing is going to be at her house, it doesn't count. Because at seven, it's all about how much you rake in for having an anniversary of the day of your birth. The booty. The spoils. the riches.
I got nothing for you. So here's what I'm going to do. On the way to pick you up at school today, I'm going to stop in a WalMart or Target or some other crappy, soulless corporate big box store and grab a bunch of crap made in China and throw some gift bags and tissue paper in the cart and pay for it and put it all together in the parking lot. The whole process is going to take less than 10 minutes.
It's not that I'm not thoughtful, it's that you're seven. It doesn't matter what I get, it's going to end up at the bottom of your closet in two days. My job is to teach you the important things in life, like golf course etiquette and a love of football and an appreciation for sarcasm and the proper timing of a punch line. You'll lose interest in some kind of Polly Pocket Animal Care Center in no time. Learning to be a total smart-ass just like dear old dad will last a lifetime.