Merry Christmas, A Wee Little Bit Early

The most sacred and festive of seasons is upon us once again, and with it all of the traditions of the yuletide. Carols celebrating Advent, snow if you're in the right part of the country, twinkle lights, and the list goes on. As you all know, one of these is the exchanging of gifts.

This tradition can become rather complex if you have family in far-off, un-snowy states, such as Georgia, for example. Mail carriers and those estimable post office workers do not esteem your boxes of goods, so well thought out and planned, as you do. They do things like lose them, plop them in snow drifts, use the packaging tape to mend flat tires, and send every tenth box through the giant gift-eating machine which then spits them out barely recognizable. And your box and mine are always the tenth one. With all of that said, the most natural and brilliant thing to do is to fulfill this tradition(if you so desire) when with at least part of the family in far-off, un-snowy states.

Brilliancy runs in my family, but I got skipped. Because in an effort to be brilliant in this way, my grandmother sent a rather bulky and weighty box home with me when I was in Georgia a few weeks ago, with a strict injunction to hide it for her and bring it out, beautifully wrapped, at the appropriate time. I had every intention and desire to be helpful in this way(I can at least aid and abet brilliancy), so I did as she asked. So after a very, very early flight home, I took said box and hid it just before going to bed to catch up on some sleep.

And then I forgot it. I told you I got skipped.

So this morning, while Grandee(code name for grandmothers from GA) and I stood at the mirror, fixing our hair, she said something like this:
"You know that thing I sent home with you? Where is it?"

I thought desperately for two seconds and then said: "I don't know." I had that terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach like I used to get when I had to go tell Mom that I had broken that crystal dish that was a wedding present.

She said "BECCA!!!" And she squealed it like a teenager, because she does that, even though she's I'm-not-telling-you how many years old.

Then I searched in my closet, since that was the only place big enough to hide it in my room, where I was certain it was, and it wasn't there. I got called away, and didn't look again until tonight when she asked for it. And then Anna searched in our closet, and had no better success.
It was becoming a dismal sort of situation. So Grandee said "oh, don't worry about, I'm sure you'll remember in a day or two." and proceeded to give me lesson in how to throw a football. (It didn't go so great, just so you know, but it gave us a laugh)

The next suggestion was the boy's closet. Oh no, I said, it can't be there, because I know that I hid it in my room. But for form's sake, I looked. And lo and behold, where should it be besides nestled in a pile of unsewn sewing projects, there in Josiah and David's closet. Don't ask why sewing projects are in that place.

So we wrapped it beautifully, and it sits now under the figurative tree which we haven't set up. But there it is, proving that miracles do happen, and that stories still can have a happy ending. However, my mother still does pity my someday-husband-- he'll have to have a lot of brilliancy to make up for my lack thereof, and that's a very large lack, after all. :)