Ah yes, my favorite Christmas tale. I turned atheist around the age of 10, but before that I went to church on the regular. My church (First Presbyterian, in Columbus, Indiana) had a special Christmas Eve tradition in which the pastor would read the story of the birth of Christ, and all the kids in attendance would dress as a character in the story. When their characters were first mentioned, they would rise from the pews and join the nativity scene on the stage. I had a friend named Brock Jolly who liked to pick farm animals and would show up in elaborate costumes constructed of cardboard and papier mache. My sister and I would just grab hockey sticks and bathrobes at the last minute and go as shepherds.
Typically if you were dressed as Mary you were responsible for bringing a baby Jesus. So all Marys would carry dolls and place them in the manger. One year I decided to be Joseph, and I also decided that I had just as much a stake in our son (no pun intended) as Mary did, so I brought a baby Jesus. Now this wasn't just any doll. This was one my mom had as a girl. It was large and heavy and realistic. When you tilted its head back, the eyelids would close over its stunning glass eyes. I had the best baby Jesus in the room, hands down.
The way the story was told, the pastor mentioned Joseph before Mary, so I had a leg up on the competition. I went up there with my son and nestled him snug in the manger. By the time the cavalcade of Marys approached, I'd decided the crib was mine--after all, my Jesus objectively kicked their Jesus' asses--and I stood my ground. Rabidly. Blood may have been shed. Look, bitches, this inn is full.
I don't remember how they eventually got me to relent. I think adult intervention was involved. But for a moment I had truly created a Jerry Springer Christmas on that stage. And for any baby Jesuses I may have tossed out of that manger in a fit of parental pride, I truly apologize.