Opening a Gift

I'm not proud of it, but I have come clean to my family. It was a real problem, that I couldn't control through much of my childhood. I hid it, and I completely got away with it, too. My parents never suspected that I would do such a horrible thing.

I opened my presents before Christmas.

After the illusion of Santa was crushed, (and I remember EXACTLY where I was when that happened . . . a story for another day), my mom would put the immaculately wrapped presents under the tree as she bought them, sometimes weeks before the big day. Did she have no idea what this would do to me? Was she under the illusion that I had self-control?!

My parents were asleep . . . I went to the living room to watch TV and there was the beautiful and majestic Christmas tree, with it's twinkling lights and years and years of homemade ornaments. The paper and cotton ball Santa, crumpled and held together with tape, that my dad made when he was in elementary school, Miss Piggy with angel wings and halo (my FAVORITE ornament), and dozens of multi-colored tinsel umbrellas that my mother had from her mother, just to name a few. There's nothing like my family Christmas tree. It's always crooked, the limbs are weighed down with far too many ornaments, and it'll never be the kind of tree you see on TV in a Christmas special, but it's the most beautiful tree in the world to me. And underneath that tree, dozens of mysteries wait to be unraveled . . .

It started pretty innocently. I casually strolled over to the tree, taking a peek at the "to" and "from" cards. (I liked to compare the size and quantity of my presents compared to my brothers . . . solely for research purposes. I'm not competitive or jealous, you see.) And, oh, one of the presents "To Erin, From Mom" is in a gift BAG. "Well, maybe I'll just lift the present, to see how heavy it is. Hmm, I don't suppose it would hurt if I just PEEKED inside . . . if the metallic green tissue paper shifted to the side, that's not MY fault . . . " And just like that, a red-headed, flannel pajama wearing, present snooping maniac was born.

It was SO EASY that year to pretend that I didn't know that the gift bag contained my yearly decorative socks! My performance was pitch perfect! "Oh! Socks with kittens wearing sweaters?! Thank you, Mom! I love them!" And she BOUGHT IT!

After that, there was no stopping me. I'd wait until my parents went out, and I'd get to work. As the years went by, I become such a pro. I could unwrap the Fort Knox of presents and rewrap it with the greatest of ease and no one ever suspected. I was untying and retying decorative bows like a ninja (if ninjas were into untying and retying bows). And I was getting more and more convincing with the shock and awe I would portray opening the gifts that I had previously unwrapped . . . which, let's face it, over the years became all of them. I'd even start to unwrap a couple of my brother's presents (for research, remember?) There was no stopping me.

At around age 14, after opening all of our family presents, I had a hallow feeling inside. My parents had bought all of these amazing and beautiful gifts, as they always did, and I felt like a jerk because I wasn't EXCITED. It didn't feel magical, as Christmas should, because I had known for days, sometimes weeks what everything was. I took that joy you get from giving someone a special gift away from my parents, and the crummiest part was, that they didn't even know (CURSES for being such a good actress!) I had this huge moment of recognition of how spoiled I was. (I still AM, but at least now I know it and I don't open my gifts.)

Years later, I casually mentioned, "Oh, yeah, I used to open all of my Christmas gifts," much to my mother's shock and accusations of, "Oh, you're bad! You're BAD!" And I really do feel bad about it. Why couldn't I stop myself? What a shithead! I'll never get those moments of surprise back.

So, to my wonderful Mom and Dad (and let's face it Dad, it was MOM doing all the shopping), I'm sorry I ruined the magic of holiday gift-giving for years. I guess the only way we could get it back would be . . . hmmmm . . . I mean, I promise I won't look . . . more presents?