My wife’s out of town on my birthday this year, so she conspired with the kids to have them make me a birthday breakfast. As we were eating, they dialed her on the phone.
“Happy Birthday,” she answered. “Do you have my present?”
“I’ve got one here from each of the kids,” I said. “But . . .”
“What?” She said over the speaker phone. “Where’s mine?”
After a brief conference as to what had happened to hers, the boys tracked it down.
“Thanks!” I flipped it over to read out loud a note written in Sharpy on its top. “Have a fantastic birthday! Sorry I couldn’t be there, honey!”
“Okay,” my wife said. “So I didn’t get you a card. Sheesh!”
“No, that’s what it says.” I noticed the kids looking rather sheepish. “Ah. I think it was added for you. It’s nice.”
She was laughing. “I thought you were teasing me for not getting a card.”
“No, no. This is cool. . . Honey.”
That’s not something we call each other. She laughed even harder. “Just open it!”
I tore into it, and pulled out a box of scone mix. “Scone mix?” I said. “Sweet! I’ll have to make them when you’re back.”
“Scones? What are you talking about? Never mind. There’s more!”
I pulled out another box of scone mix. “More scones.” I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling. “Great. We can make them when we make the other ones.” I pulled out a third box. “Hey, look. . . Scones!”
By now, she was laughing too hard to speak coherently.
“. . . and a bag of licorice.” I finished.
“Those aren’t for you!”
The boys, who had been looking confused, now looked alarmed.
“Oh,” I said. “Can I have them, anyway?”
“No!” she said. “Boys, go to my room, and – ”
“But, Momma,” they interrupted. “Those were in the bag.”
She directed them to the proper bag, and they returned with a new jeans jacket, which is, I gotta say, super cool.
. . . but I’m still keeping the scones.