I have two kids, two lovely little children who think Christmas is the greatest thing ever and start going crazy as soon as December arrives. (I’ve thankfully trained them well enough to know you can’t start celebrating until Thanksgiving is over.) Yet the most impossible one to handle is my husband. He always has been.
No gift is a secret. For him or for me. Every single year, as soon as gifts are under the tree he starts pestering me to find out what he got. As soon as he buys my gift, he starts taunting, “I bought your present. Want to know what it is? Guess. Just guess.” I usually cave and let him tell me simply so he’ll shut up about it.
But that sneaky little man of mine has crossed the line this year.
His mother wanted to know what to get him and I suggested she get him bar stools for his mancave. There was absolutely no way he could have possible guessed this, yet I received the box today, wrapped it and dragged the damned thing behind the tree, and he didn’t bat an eye at it when he came home. He didn’t rush over to see who it was for or immediately start nagging me to tell me what was in it.
When I grew suspicious and asked if he noticed the gigantic box behind the tree, he casually said, “Yeah.” When I asked if he knew who it was for he said, “Me, I guess.”
Ah-ha! Suspicions confirmed. So I said, “You’ll never guess what’s in it.”
“Probably something for my mancave.”
That’s when I knew. I sat straight up, glared my meanest glare, and said, “You read my email to your mother! You sneaky, bastard.”
He smirked, “It’s your fault for leaving your inbox open.”
“It’s my fault you read my e-mail?”
“I had to fix something and it was open.”
Yeah…and buried under about two hundred other e-mails.
That’s it. Next year, I’m not only emptying my e-mail and clearing my cookies, I’m sending smoke signals to his mother so her sneaky little son can’t figure out what he’s getting and taking the fun out of the holidays for everybody else who likes to see him be surprised.