Dang, I’m good. Maybe too good.
Not only have I already set up my Christmas wrapping station, but I have wrapped a fair number of items and separated them into various boxes. One box for my son, another for my husband and so on, except for my girl-child.
“Why ever not?” you ask. Is she the poor,
neglected, red-haired stepchild? Hardly.
I have always been the sort who thrills to the surprise of Christmas morning. Not so my female offspring. For reasons I will never get, she wants to know now, right now.
Well, I didn’t just fall of that turnip truck, so each year I brainstorm to find ways to successfully hide her gifts, even after they are wrapped. She may not unwrap it, but she will pinch and poke a gift within an inch of its thinly covered life.
This year, I thought, was my most brilliant move ever. Everyone else’s stuff is in boxes scattered about my bedroom floor, draped in pillowcases. Next to my wrapping table is a tall trash bag half-full of wrapping detritus. On the other side is an identical tall trash bag. At the bottom are the handful of her gifts I’ve already wrapped, covered in big wads of crunched up brown paper and a few bits of wrapping paper. Perfect! So perfect, that my cleaning lady promptly filled the bag to the brim with real trash and tossed it into the garage.
When I first saw the bag was gone, I panicked just a little. Then I heaved a sigh of relief it wasn’t trash day. Then I laughed out loud as I dug through the garbage to retrieve the gifts. I was so busy trying to rewrap them all, I forgot to cover them up last night. The lights were out and I was asleep in my room by the time she got home, so I don’t think she went exploring. I won’t get the truth until Christmas morning.
Meanwhile, I do feel rather smug that the ruse worked — really, really well.
Last year I jammed all her gifts into my empty suitcases in my closet, which worked fine until I ran out of room. As Christmas draws closer and her curiosity gets keener, I may have to put those egg shells and orange peels back in use.
“Oh no!” you cry. What if she reads this column? Not a problem. My family has made an unspoken pact to avoid reading my ramblings. They hope that their friends don’t either. I adore 20-somethings, but they are not my target market, so I think we are all safe.
If my daughter accidentally opens up a package to find it filled with used tea bags and dust bunnies this Christmas, don’t blame me. It’s all Santa, baby.
Filed Under: Small Talk