Oh, I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a wonderful, cold Christmas morning in 1988. I had on my Garfield pajamas and ridiculous matching slippers. Oh was I excited for this day.
I had begged and pleaded for a scooter. Not one of those flimsy razor scooters the kids have now. But a shiny red scooter, with big chunky white tires. Oh, how I would be the coolest girl on the block if I could cruise around on that.
As I walked out of my bedroom and into the living room I couldn’t help but shout with joy that Santa had brought me the scooter! I then remember looking over to see my dad’s shiny tool box in the corner. Why is that out I ask? “Oh, Santa didn’t have time to assemble your gift, so I had to help,” said my dad.
How naive I was. After the gifts were unwrapped, I trekked outside for a little test drive. And there IT was. The box my scooter came in sitting out by the garbage – with a big KMart price tag. In that moment it all became clear…My parents are Santa!