I’ve been thinking a lot about Christmas surprises this week. I have a few up my sleeve that I’m
dying to share (stay tuned to my
Instagram if you’re curious). Growing up, my dad was the king of Christmas finales (likely to the horror of my budget-conscious mother). Every time we assumed the last gift had been opened, he’d shock us with one last extravagance. One year it was an exotic
Abyssinian kitten. Another, it was my very own
desktop computer. He once surprised my rural Connecticut mom with a swanky floor-length leather coat he bought in New York City (it was the eighties, after all). At the height of
Nintendo mania, he miraculously procured a sold out copy of Super Mario Bros 2 - a surprise that prompted a blood-curdling scream of joy. He didn’t
always knock it out of the park, however. Tickets to a Broadway performance of
Sophocles’ Electra went over like a lead balloon. And there was a confusing set of pink Tiffany champagne flutes during my sophomore year in college. The all-time
worst present will forever remain a 10-speed bicycle at age seven. It was huge and unwieldy, with handlebars like the head of an angry ram; all the more poorly received since I had not yet learned
how to ride a bike. I’m pretty sure my chronic anxiety began on that day. I can’t blame him though, especially now that I know his true secret: it’s
way more fun to plan the surprises than to receive them. Now if only the discontinued
Harry Potter Lego set I ordered off the black market would arrive on time… 😬🤞🙏
