It’s a season for gifts -- not diapers

I can’t believe my mom and dad, having a baby at their age, at this time of the year.

I mean, what’s going on here?

First they come home with this new baby boy, and then my dad’s so tired I have to write his stupid column for him while I’m home from college.

This is supposed to be my winter break and my family’s chance to make me the center of attention and here’s this baby stealing the spotlight. So much for silent nights.

“Honey, can you grab your baby brother for me?” my mom keeps asking.

“Mom!”

“Just for a few minutes,” she says.

“OK,” I say, and hold him till he stops crying.

Did you know babies require almost constant care? I mean, constant. Just because I’m the oldest daughter do I have to do everything? Sure, he’s really cute and all, but give me a break. Life isn’t noisy and dirty enough without a baby?

“What kind of midlife crisis is this?” I say to my dad. “Can’t you just get a Corvette and a toupee like other midlife guys?”

And he says, “This is a toupee, sweetie.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t worry, it looks very real,” he says.

He’s always making flip remarks, my dad. I think it’s just this generation of fathers that makes the flip remarks.

“He think he’s Sam Malone,” my mom says.

“Who?”

“The bartender on ‘Cheers,’ ” she says.

“Great,” I say. “Dad idolizes TV bartenders.”

This morning, my dad is on the couch with the baby, the two of them laughing at each other like a comedy team. “I think this kid has a very sophisticated sense of irony,” my dad says, “for his age.”

“He’s 2 weeks old, Dad,” I say.

“Oh no, time for another diaper,” he says and hands the baby to me.

If you ask me, there should be some sort of upper age limit for having babies.

Like what? Like when the dad drools more than the baby.

Or when the brand-new baby has more hair than the dad.

Or when they both wear diapers. I’m just joking about the diapers, but it’s not that far-fetched.

My mom and dad, they’re at the age where they need to be saving up for my wedding or maybe a nice graduation gift, and instead, they’re preoccupied with this baby. I swear, this has to be the most twisted Christmas ever.

Speaking of old people, my grandpa is here for Christmas too. You can tell he’s in town because when he snores, the windows rattle and the Hollywood sign quivers a little.

I say, “Grandpa, you’re not having any more babies, are you?” and he says, “No, we thought we’d wait.”

See? Twisted.

Yesterday, my dad walks into the room, all cranky and stuff, bellowing like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Legs creaking, his stomach making all sorts of intestinal sounds. Like a symphony of gases. If you have a dad, you probably know what I’m talking about.

“Hey, someone water the Christmas tree!” he yells. “Eighty bucks and they treat it like a stick of gum.”

“Gum, Dad?” I say.

“It was the best I could think of at the moment,” he says.

“OK, I’ll water the tree,” says my teenage brother, and then hits my dad up for snowboard money.

I think this Christmas has been kind of rough on my dad. He’s pretty tired staying up with the baby and running around shopping. He says that if he hears one more Karen Carpenter song, he’s “going to embrace Judaism.”

I think he’s joking but you never know with my dad. Sometimes you think “he’s got to be kidding” and then you find out he’s completely serious. I guess that’s a dad for you.

He’s always such a wise guy. Christmas is supposed to be about wise men, not wise guys. If the Bible said, “And then three wise guys spotted a bright star over Bethlehem ...,” Christmas might be totally different. Anyway, that’s how our holiday is going.

I have to go now on account of the baby is crying, and my mom is yelling at my dad and my little sister is putting the Christmas stockings on the dog. In other words, things are pretty normal around here.

I’ll say one thing though. Christmas is no time to have a baby.

*

Chris Erskine’s column is published Wednesdays. He can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.