By using “they’re” instead of “we’re”, it may appear that I consider myself an outsider to their shenanigans, one who holds surprise to be the best part of gift giving and looks with dismay on anyone who seeks to corrupt the joy of the unknown before the appropriate day.
It may appear this way because it is absolutely true. I love surprises. They love CSI: Christmas Scene Investigator. We battle yearly, the purist vs. “This one is practically unwrapped already. Might as well open it now.” I always lose, it’s just a matter of what degree.
Yesterday, I was wrapping their gifts in a bedroom in my Mom’s house. I knew ahead of time this was a huge tactical blunder, much like a dopey security guard walking in one of the worst neighborhoods in Brooklyn and swinging in each hand a large bag with a giant $ sign on it, while singing “Whistle While You Work” to himself and pausing occasionally to adjust his boxers or wave to strangers.
It was the only time I had to wrap the gifts, but I can blame no one but myself for what happened next. First, Tina tried the blunt approach. She walked in the room and began searching through the big bag of gifts that I brought. ‘Tina, what are you doing?” I snapped. She looked hurt. “What? I thought they were wrapped.”
Okay. Perhaps she didn’t see the scissors in my right hand. Or the wrapping paper strewn on the floor. Or that I had to spit out a piece of ribbon in my mouth before I could scold her. She stomped out of the room. “Everyone, watch out. Jason is Mr. Cranky Pants today.”
I could still hear the cries of “Mr. Cranky Pants” after she went downstairs, so I shut the door. I didn’t want to shut the door, because a closed door near Christmastime attracts a lot of attention in my family, much like a suitcase handcuffed to a courier pokes the curiosity of even the most virtuous.
A few minutes later, I realized I forgot to bring name tags for the gifts, so I opened the door a crack and slid out to grab some downstairs. Right after I put my foot on the first step, I heard a soft voice whisper behind me, “He’s gone, let’s go!” I turn around to see Michele and my Mom make a dash for the room.
I chased them down and shoved them out before they could discover anything. Then I locked the bedroom door, and, I’m being completely serious here, shoved a laundry hamper and a chair in front of the door to barricade it lest one of them pick the lock. Which they have done before. Usually with a letter opener, but they’ll use a paper clip if they have to.
After I finished wrapping the nameless gifts, I brought them downstairs. A luxury the family did not always have. After our dad passed away, there were a few hours in the day when Mom was at work and the three of us were at home, unsupervised. Michele and Tina used this valuable time for many tasks, one of which was to unwrap and rewrap their gifts.
They could have got away with it too, if they weren’t so proud of themselves that they burst into laughter in the midst of unwrapping presents Christmas morning (or occasionally crying to Mom a few days before Christmas because they unwrapped all their presents and found that they weren't getting something they really wanted). My family isn't Jewish, but we know the meaning of chutzpah.
Leaving gifts under the tree is no longer a risky behavior. Michele and Tina view surreptitious unwrapping the same way they view the Barbies and My Little Ponies they played with as children. They have moved on long ago to more sophisticated techniques.
All of which they learned from my Mom. Michele and Tina have come a long way, but they’re still not even in the same league as her.
This year, Tina had a good idea. Knowing my Mom loves to find out what she’s getting ahead of time as much as she does, Tina called Mom and proposed a trade: I’ll tell you one gift you don’t know about if you tell me one gift I don’t know about.
Mom agreed, and asked about the heavy, thin object. Mom thought it was a Picasso painting. Unfortunately it was a baking sheet. Tina asked about a medium-sized box, and found out Mom got her wine glasses.
Tina called Michele to crow about her cleverness.
“Guess what. I got Mom to tell me one of the gifts she got me.”
Michele knew most of the gifts Tina got. “Which one?”
“The wine glasses. I told her about the baking sheet, and she told me about the wine glasses.”
“Tina, you fool. Mom didn’t get you wine glasses. She hid the real present in a wine glass box."
"Oops. I wasn't supposed to tell you that."
As Tina and Michele were retelling the story on Christmas day, Mom shook her fist triumphantly. My Mom, the master bargain hunter, managed to get something for nothing again. Michele blabbed the goods to Tina, but Mom was still victorious: she pulled a fast one over her gullible kids.
I forget how I learned that Santa Claus isn’t real. I have a hunch though Mom had to resist doing a fist pump and saying, "Yes!" afterwards. And that, if I have kids, it will be hard for me not to do the same.
Update: After Tina read the post, she said, "I found out Santa didn't exist when Mom asked me to write his name on a gift tag."
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