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.”

“Wrong 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.