A vignette about minimalist parenting when grandparents don’t really get it.

“You’re probably not going to like this,” my dad says in what I will come to find out is a suitably sheepish tone.

“We bought the boys some souvenirs!” he says, more cheerfully, with just a touch of singsong in his voice.

By “the boys” he is referring to my three- and five-year-old sons.

Before I can stop him, he has handed each of them a bag.

“Cool!” my older son says, ripping open the brown paper. His back is to me, so I can’t see what he has in his hands. And then, I hear it.

SCREEEEEEECHHHH

It is a sound as joyful as it is unpleasant.

“You bought them flutes?!” I ask, incredulous.

“You always say you don’t want to give them toys with batteries!” my dad says, not at all passive aggressively.

“I don’t object to the batteries themselves,” I say through gritted teeth. “I object to toys that make repetitive, obnoxious sounds. Much like a flute.”

My own lovely mother walks in, clearly distressed.

“What is that horrible noise?!” she asks. “You gave them those damn flutes, didn’t you!” she accuses my father.

“They love them! Look!” my dad says with pure glee.

I have to admit, he’s right. The high-pitched screeches are punctuated by giggles. And as I am slowly driven into madness, one screech at a time, I contemplate just how I will exact my revenge. These giggles are what keep me off the edge. And the knowledge that my dad didn’t just want to piss me off by buying flutes for my children. He wanted to piss off my mom too. And that’s just a little bit funny.