The Okayish Kids

I make a list for everything. 

Groceries.

To-dos.

Every life-defining experience I want to have before I die—although, fact is, I never die. At approximately 1,751 years, 10 months, 29 days, 23 hours and 25 minutes old, I’m surprised that my nutrionally void diet of fruit cake and cookies hasn’t killed me just yet.  

These lists consume most of my day. They give me a sense of control over my life, from the precise order of my daily activities to errands I need to check off. My relentless nag of a wife, who unfortunately never dies either, has complained on multiple occasions that my list-making habit has made me too simple of a man. The creative, innovative toy maker she fell in love with died somewhere in between the lines of the Roman-Numeraled items I never stray away from. If a recipe calls for a fourth cup of flour, I add no more, no less. If my to-do list does not call for a day of ice fishing, I will not go ice fishing, even if opportunity calls for it.   

Perhaps the lists that bother her the most, though, are my nice and naughty lists. I make these lists at the end of each year, typing out the names of each and every small human who still has faith in the physics of a 200-lb man who can fly. Strictly speaking, these children are either nice or naughty; good or bad; deserving of an American Girl doll or a steaming pile of reindeer dookie.

There is no in between. 

Over the centuries, I’ve changed the way I create my lists. Back in the day, I used to use a feather dipped in ink to write everything down. Eventually I upgraded to a typewriter and these days I use a MacBook Pro. It’s much more efficient than a feather plucked from a large unsuspecting bird.

What hasn’t changed, however, is the stringency with which I categorize children. I have strict criteria for what qualifies as nice and what qualifies as naughty. Ear-piercing screeching in the middle of the frozen goods aisle at Vons, for instance, qualifies as naughty. Slipping Rohypnol in my glass of milk, as one demented child tried to do in 2010, also qualifies as naughty. Helping your mother set the table and keeping your goddamn mouth shut, on the other hand, qualifies as nice. 

“Times change,” my wife complains. “What used to be considered naughty back in the day now qualifies as nice. Girls as young as ten wear eyeshadow. Cotton candy vape juice has replaced the licorice of the 1900s and the Ring Pops of the 90s. This is 2022. Kids are different.” 

I ignore her attempt at reasoning and continue to run a criminal check on every little soul on this planet.

“You can’t put Aiden on the naughty list,” she exclaims, hovering over me. “His parents just went through a divorce! Give him a break.”

“Who cares?” I say. “He picks his nose.” 

“And what about Jenny?” she adds. “She’s changed her ways ever since she turned ten.” 

“I have a strict three-year policy until you can be moved onto the nice list again.” I confidently put Jenny's name right under Aiden’s. I continue ignoring my wife and rub my crystal ball to check what certain children are up to. Although I can recall most children's behavior by memory, my aging yet immortal memory makes it difficult to recall every single child’s behavior on command.

According to my crystal ball: 

Adam T. in St. Louis, Missouri is helping his mother sweep the floors as usual. “Nice.” 

Sarah J. in Albany, New York is fighting with her younger brother in a double-seater grocery cart. “Naughty.”

Jared S. in Ashford, Connecticut is spitting his masticated peas and carrots into a napkin when his father isn’t looking. “Naughty.”

I put away my crystal ball and switch to the next step of my categorization process: sifting through the heaping pile of wish-list letters (and emails from the small percentage of children who thought to try sleighrider@hotmail.com).

One particular letter catches my attention. To start, it's not a wish list, per say. It's an argumentative essay from a seven year old. It comes from a William H. in Topeka, Kansas. And despite the drunken whirl of crayon-scribbled words that go off the light blue lines of the composition paper, his writing does not match his penmanship. He is sophisticated for his age and, for a seven year old, his grammar is impecable. I run it through a plagarism check, but it comes out clear. I settle down with a cup of hot cocoa and begin to read the letter in its entirety.

Dear Mr. Claus,

Before you make a hasty decision as to my verdict, please hear me out. I am, at my core, a decent human being. I am not a demon. Neither am I a saint. I have said the occasional bad word and pushed my siblings when they got on my nerves, yes. However, I have also performed CPR on my little sister's guinea pig. In fact, I saved his life. I have also eaten an entire stalk of brocoli without throwing up. I have even returned a lost Nintendo to the lost and found. Any unsavory behavior is rooted in my still developing seven-year-old brain. Like my motor skills, my emotional intelligence and social awareness are still developing.

I'd also like to point out that, despite my overconsumption of candy and sugar this last October (which, as you know, is against my mother's wishes), you consume more cookies in one night than I will ever consume in my entire childhood.

With this said, I kindly request a Hulkbuster Lego set, which, thanks to inflation, averages at $549.99.

Regards,

William H.

I am, as the kids say in this century, shooketh. I begin to sweat. My face turns redder than it has ever been depicted on cookie tins, store windows, or inflatable yard decorations of me. I search my mind for an answer.

Nice or naughty. 

After hours of deliberation and ten more cups of hot cocoa, my hand begins to tremble. I reach for my mouse and, with an unsteady hand, create a third column on my Excel sheet.

Column C

Okay

_______________________________________

It’s Christmas morning. William wakes up at exactly 6 in the morning, adjusts his rocketship-printed pajamas, and calmy walks out to the living room. He checks under the tree that is five times his height. He sees nothing but does not panic. 

He walks closer, circles the circumference of the tree carefully until he spots one carefully wrapped gift.

He shakes it and, to his delight, hears the plasticy clatter of Legos.

He opens it, tearing the red paper off carefully. He frowns.

Bulder Blocks, the knock-off Legos. They're more dimly colored, larger, and are occasionally flawed by mishaped pieces that don't always fit together unless you jam them together like two puzzle pieces that don't go together.

It is an okay gift. An in-between gift for an in-between kid like him.

He decides it's satisfactory, puts the pieces together, and smiles.

He is okay.