Finally, a Christmas surprise?
(Originally published December 2023)
“Create a diversion!”
I never imagined saying that in real life. I don’t think the UPS driver knew what to make of it either.
I hadn’t expected my secret Christmas gift for Mark to arrive while he was home. And if he stepped out of the wood shop during the delivery, the surprise would be ruined.
When I saw the UPS guy pull in, I ran out onto the porch in my stocking feet, whisper-yelling commands and random words. The dog’s frantic barking, which translated roughly to “Brown truck kill us all,” added to the chaos.
Hopping up and down, I pointed at the shop and sputtered words like “husband” and “surprise” and “hurry.” I ordered the man to stand guard on the steps to distract Mark if he poked his head out of the shop. But instead of preparing to feign choking or create some other diversion, he insisted on lugging the very heavy box into the kitchen for me.
“Go, go, go!” I shouted, shoving him toward the truck while keeping my eye on the shop door.
Racing back inside, I assessed the box, which contained the gift in question: a mini lathe. Mark had always wanted one but wouldn’t buy one for himself. For once, I was going to get him a thoughtful gift—and he wasn’t going to find out about it before Christmas.
The box had a picture of the lathe printed on it, which made hiding it more urgent. If he saw it, he’d know instantly what it was.
“Even when I do get him something somewhat special, he ruins the surprise.”
I realize we’re adults; I didn’t need to make this a surprise. But it was payback. Every few years, Mark devises an elaborate ruse to find me a special and unexpected Christmas gift. One year he got me a 200-year-old spinning wheel, signed by the maker, that had taken him months to track down and bring back from New York.
I got him a wallet.
Even when I do get him something somewhat special, he ruins the surprise. One year, for instance, I hid a new golf bag in the back of my craft closet, where he never goes.
One day, he called from upstairs, “Hey, what’s this golf bag doing in the back of your craft closet?”
Seriously?
“What,” I said, through gritted teeth, “would possess you to look in there?”
“I lost a pair of pliers a few months ago, and I was looking for them.”
No. This year would be different. I planned to slide the box under the bed in the front bedroom, so far back he’d never see it.
I planned poorly.
First, the box, according to the label, weighed 64.2 pounds, which is a lot to carry up a flight of stairs, especially when one is in a panicked rush. Through a dynamic series of grunts and curses, I managed to heave it, one stair at a time, up to the landing. I stopped after each step to catch my breath and listen for the kitchen door opening.
Second, the box, which took all my effort to push down the hall, did not, in fact, fit under the bed in the front room. It did fit under the bed in the other bedroom, but that’s where we keep the Christmas model train set. Mark would no doubt find a reason to look there, even if I brought the train downstairs. (“I couldn’t find the caboose. But I found a lathe!”)
Over the next few harried minutes, I left a trail of scuff marks and brow sweat across the upstairs floors. I skidded that box hither and yon and hither again.
Finally, sitting on the floor and using my feet, I rammed it into the front bedroom’s closet, where I threw a blanket over it. I didn’t have the time, or the energy, to be clever.
Did I succeed?
Was this the year I finally managed to surprise and delight Mark? I don’t know yet: I’m writing this before Christmas.
I’d like to tell you it went seamlessly. That Mark had no idea that any gift awaited him upstairs. And that when he did find it, he said it was the best Christmas present he’d ever received.
It’s more likely, however, that on Christmas Eve he said, “I can’t wait to use my new lathe.” And when my mouth dropped open, he said, “You left your laptop open and I read your column.”
The man is hard to surprise. But, if I’m being honest, I might be part of the problem.
