The day has come. My family is here.
All twenty-three of them. My aunt and her new baby are coming in a few days (they’re smart. If it was me, I’d show up on Christmas Eve and leave on Boxing Day). Then it will be twenty-five. Twenty-five relatives. In my house. Non-stop.
As I suspected, Robby and Bobby (my twin cousins who are total pains) arrived with plans to make my life miserable. They hadn’t been there for more than ten minutes when they started sticking paper moustaches all over every single picture of me in the house.
My little cousin threw up all over my mom’s rug. My aunt said he was still a bit carsick.
My grandpa ate the chocolate bar I’d been saving.
My grandma told me I’m slouching.
My great-aunt pinched my cheek so hard it still hurts.
Millie seems to be holding up better than I am. A lot of our relatives brought her little gifts. Did they bring me anything? No, because I’m the oldest. I have to be mature and set the example for everyone else. Sometimes I think it would be amazing to be the youngest in a family.
I’d say more, but my mom is yelling for me to come and help take care of the little kids. I can’t wait until Boxing Day.
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