This year, I alone would hold the title of Coolest Parent. Terry wouldn't even know what hit him.
On the celebration of the day of our Lord's birth, I brushed off the last flecks of glitter still clinging to my four-year-old "Mommy's little deer" sweatshirt that Gabe made me wear each year, adjusted the heap of mass on my head to rearrange the greasy spots, and slid the rectangular shape in front of my husband.
"The last one's for daddy," I singsonged, then honked, "Not!" and pushed it in front of Gabe. They both looked at me confused. "Open it!" I squealed, then clamped my mouth with my hands.
Gabe lifted one flap of one side of wrapping paper and calmly declared: "It's a Wii," as if a long awaited male heir to a throne had been confirmed.
Not the shredding of paper and tackle of affection and laughter I had envisioned.
Then Terry, eyes protuberant, mouth agape, "What!? How did you get that?!"
The dam burst: "Hannah's husband got one when they had a drawing at his work for the employees to buy a Wii 'cause they never get to stand in line to buy one 'cause they're always working when the store opens and they can't wait in line when they're working but the guy who won the Wii didn't want it and since Hannah already had one and they knew we couldn't find one her husband asked the guy for the ticket to buy the Wii and he bought it for us and you have no idea how many times I wanted to tell you but I wanted it to be a surprise are you surprised?"
I'm pretty sure my husband was picturing me naked. "You cook breakfast, I'm going to set up the Wii," he said hotly.
I blinked. Twice. Three times.
I am writing Nintendo immediately. Be dammed lead painted toys, this Wii contraption is dangerous for women. And addicting.