Christmas is only a few days away and as usual, I am not one
of those enviable types that are ahead of the game by a long shot. This time of year my closet is designated as The Area Which Shall Not Be Entered,
otherwise known as my hiding place for presents. I’ve been pushing packages in
there for weeks, shoving them to the back, piling plain brown bags on top of
the plastic ones with more obvious markings. Spouse and Second Born forbidden to follow me through the house as I slip through the hall with
packages and close the door to the bedroom, dropping my finds into their
temporary digs.
It's not like I have these things protected by lock and key.... or even a door, for that matter. It is just the unspoken threat of what might happen to those packages that usually deters any poking around. When First Born was living here, it was a different story. She was (and I believe still is, according to The Fiancé) a world class snoop. I had to just about booby trap bags and boxes, or wrap them immediately when she was around. Second Born rarely even makes it a challenge, and Spouse is afraid if he goes anywhere near my closet I will demand a door, so he wisely avoids that area at all costs.
Now comes the most challenging part for me - labeling
wrapped packages correctly. Since you’re not me, your ability to retain a
thought is probably longer than that of a gnat. I, on the other hand, will wrap
an item, place it on the bed and turn around to grab a label… and forget who it
was for, let alone what it is. This could be dangerous. Nobody wants Uncle Ned
to unwrap the Hello Kitty Pop-Up Board Game while little Annie is displaying a
collection of Cuban cigars. You get the point even with made up names. I should also really consider keeping some kind of chart to be sure I have accounted for every
gift that was buried in my closet, to prevent unearthing items three months
later.
It’s the stocking stuffers that are my real downfall,
though. Every year the little things I pick up in preceding weeks manage to
morph into mounds of stuff that will never fit into stockings. I swore I only
got a few things, but it turns out it was more like a few dozen things. I would
like to believe that I am not the only one who faces the same struggle at 11
p.m. each Christmas Eve, trying to shove socks, card games and five pounds of
chocolate into each overflowing stocking.
When it comes to identifying gifts for those outside the
family and close friends, coworkers for instance, it can be tricky to choose
the appropriate Christmas label. I am a tad biased about who is given the more
festive design, hoarding the delightful reindeer or adorable angel stickers for
those who share my love of all things peanut butter instead of the guy in accounting whose name I got in the Secret Santa pick. For his gift a
wreath label will suffice.
I should point out that we don't actually have a Secret Santa or even an accounting department in my office - but if we did the guy in accounting would probably get a wreath label.
You may also have to think carefully about what you’re going
to write on that label. What if you wanted to bring a small box of homemade
cookies to your hair stylist? Should you just stick to the to-and-from format,
or can you add a small note that your roots are showing and you need an
appointment?
In the last few years I’ve taken to baking cookies as small
tokens of my appreciation (also to feed Second Born’s college roomies). There
are some folks you probably should avoid giving homemade Christmas treats to
because word spreads. I am regretting sending cookies home with the guy who
replaced our hot water heater last year. I’m convinced he told the oil tank guy
who appeared this year. But I’m on to them. I’m tired of picking out a red
ribbon each year to place on an appliance.
Once I’m done with wrapping the hidden presents, stuffing
the already overstuffed stockings (along with nibbling on a little chocolate at
the same time) and placing everything under the tree for a wonderful
celebration on Christmas morning, it is usually close to midnight. The positive
side of being up in the middle of the night is that all is calm, all is bright.
At least until I find one more bag hidden in the back of the
closet.
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