Y'all know that I think my husband is the greatest thing that ever happened to me, and that I call him My Gift from a Generous God. And he is.
But when it comes to gift-giving . . .
Some years he gives me nothing at all, just promises of some future thingamabob which he means sincerely at the time of promising (you've never seen anything as sincere as his warm brown eyes) and he just as sincerely forgets about within the day. Sometimes he gives very cool things: a telescope, a wooly blue shawl-cape, a dinner out in Siberia, all of which I loved. For my most recent birthday he gave me two red hot pads; these did not make my list of cool things.
But this year, he is giving me a nice present. It's all wrapped and under the tree. He doesn't know a thing about it, but we won't let that little detail get in the way, will we?
Now, just watch. Since I have the bases covered, this will be a year that he really nails a great gift and then I will feel like a chump. (A chump with an extra present, though, and I can live with that).
And really, this is a man who takes my car out specifically to fill the tank because he knows how much I hate to do that. This is a man who -- when I pull in the driveway with a car full of groceries -- comes out to help me unload them. This is a man who, if I have to ask him to buy some girl products, will always buy chocolate (good chocolate) too. So really, it doesn't matter what he buys for Christmas, does it?
So I have talked myself out of thinking this is pathetic . . . but just in case that feeling returns, there is still that nicely wrapped present to myself under my tree.