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Partridges and Parenting
By Stephanie Kemp








One day during High Childhood my mom and I got in a fight at Christmastime.

“Why can’t I have the tiny jeep from FAO Schwarz? ” I demanded.  

“Because it’s $500.” she responded.  “And because you can’t drive.”

I knew it would be the worst Christmas ever.


Another day (same High Childhood / still Christmastime), my mom knocked on my door after I hadn’t been seen for several hours.

“Everything ok?” she asked.

“Fine.” I mumbled as I made sure to tilt my diary away from her eyes.

“Ok. Dinner’s in 10 minutes. Tetrazzini and garlic bread.”

At least we are still a family that doesn't have to eat too many vegetables, I thought to myself, trying to stay positive.


On a third day (now Christmas morning), there was no FAO Schwarz jeep, even though I had taken it directly to Santa.

I don’t remember a single thing I got that year.

I do remember that after presents and breakfast, I went back up to my room and tried to remember all the words to that song about partridges.

I wasn’t sad because I didn’t get the jeep. (Actually, this might be a lie.)

I was sad because some part of me knew that I was acting like an asshole while the rest of me knew that I was beyond lucky.

(This is absolutely true.)