Wrapped in Wonder: A Childhood Christmas Story

I never could stand secrets. Oh, I can keep one—I’m not completely untrustworthy—but I have never handled someone keeping a secret from me with any kind of grace. As a child, Christmas wasn’t simply a holiday; it was a month-long campaign of whispers, hidden packages, and grown-ups acting like members of some elite undercover operation.

Christmas, to me, was one enormous locked diary, and everyone I knew was holding a key but me.

The real suspense started the moment the first wrapped package appeared in the back of my mother’s closet. Not under the tree—no, that would’ve been too simple. They were tucked away like contraband behind winter coats, wrapped in paper so crisp it made you immediately suspicious.

I would stand there in the half-dark, feeling that familiar itch of curiosity that’s been my companion since toddlerhood. I’d stare at the pile like maybe, just maybe, I could channel Superman’s x-ray vision and peer inside.

Of course, I did what every curious child does: I shook them. But while
other kids gave a polite rattle, I conducted a full-scale scientific investigation. Tilt, weigh, listen, rotate, reposition. If NASA had recruited children, I’d have been first in line.

But gifts are stubborn little creatures. They refused to surrender their mysteries. Sometimes, like people, the more you demand answers, the quieter they get.

One year, after enough suspense to age me prematurely, brilliance struck—a plan bold enough to be my undoing and clever enough to feel worth the risk. I would gently peel off the tape, open the flap, and peek inside. No shaking. No guessing. Just pure, unfiltered truth.

The first gift turned out to be for my brother—possibly the most anticlimactic discovery of my young life. All that work, and the universe handed me a pair of boy’s gloves, a book about cowboys I had no interest in, or a pair of socks for a kid who didn’t even appreciate clean underwear.

The betrayal was personal. But I was nothing if not determined, so I moved on to the next. Eventually, I found one for me, and that moment—the breathless anticipation, the thrill of knowing—was like striking gold. I’d admire it, soak in the joy, then rewrap it with the intense concentration of a safecracker.

And this is where childhood ingenuity really bloomed: knowing what was already purchased meant I could skillfully, strategically, and repeatedly “suggest” items that had not yet made an appearance in the closet. I’d drop hints with all the subtlety of a brick through a window.

“Gee, Mom… I sure do hope Santa remembers how much I love dolls with curly hair… Curly hair, Mom. Really curly. The curliest.”

It was a system. A fail-safe. A mutually beneficial arrangement—or so I believed.

Christmas morning, I’d perform with award-worthy theatrics. Gasps. Widened eyes. Joyful squeals. I deserved an Oscar and a cookie. I thought I was a child genius—practically a holiday prodigy. For years, I believed my own performances. My mother… did not.

The year I walked into the closet and saw that every gift was wrapped in a different pattern—one design for my brother, another for me—I knew something was wrong, and my stomach plummeted.

It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to notice that my wrapping “repairs” were less than invisible. His gifts were pristine and perfect, looking like they’d been wrapped by the angels themselves. Mine… well… mine were slightly rumpled, the edges not quite crisp. I had been exposed.

My mother’s silence said everything. She never uttered a word. Not one syllable. She simply upgraded her security system.

The next Christmas, she taped my gifts shut like they were being shipped to a foreign country. Tape down the seams. Tape across the top. Tape around the sides. Tape around the entire box in both directions. At one point, I considered checking for a padlock. The woman had basically shrink-wrapped my Christmas.

Again—silence. No accusation. No lecture. Just a mother quietly saying, in the gentlest way possible, “I know who you are, child, and I know what you did—but I love you anyway.”

Years rolled by, and eventually I outgrew my covert operations. Not because I became patient—let’s not give me that much credit—but because I finally understood something: those moments of surprise on Christmas morning mattered. Not the gifts, not the objects themselves, but the look on someone’s face when you opened something they had picked with love.

Surprise isn’t just about the gift. It’s about the people who thought of you, spent time choosing something, pictured your face when you opened it. When you steal the secret, you steal the moment. When I already knew what was under the paper, I robbed myself of something I couldn’t put back. In knowing everything early, I had stolen a bit of that magic from myself.

When I grew up—truly grew up, not just got taller—I learned to let the packages sit, mysterious and untouched. I don’t peel tape, shake boxes, or stage covert raids on closets. Not because the temptation isn’t still there—oh, it is. Curiosity still sits beside me like the devil on my shoulder, smirking, “Come on, girl, you know you want to. It’s not duct tape after all—don’t act like you’ve suddenly developed will-power. You’ve got less resistance than a plate of Christmas cookies in a room full of grandchildren.” But I’ve learned that anticipation has its own sweetness, its own quiet shimmer.

Waiting is part of the gift.

And every Christmas morning, when I open a present without knowing what’s inside, I think of my mother—her silence, her patience, her roll of tape that could’ve held the Titanic together—and I’m grateful. Because she taught me something I was too stubborn to learn on my own: sometimes the secret isn’t the problem. Sometimes the secret is the joy.

The older I get—and having lived more Christmases behind me than I’ve got waiting ahead—the more I realize life isn’t so different from those gifts in my mother’s closet. We spend years shaking the box, wishing we could peek ahead, certain that knowing the ending will somehow make the middle easier.

But living on a farm, and living long enough to see a few seasons circle back around, teaches you something quieter: the best things take their time. Lambs, gardens, stories, Christmas mornings, or life itself… none of them show up a moment before they’re ready.

My mother never scolded me for snooping. She just wrapped a little tighter, taped a little firmer, and let me learn the truth on my own—that the waiting is part of the gift.

And now, whether I’m opening a present, writing down a memory, or walking between two fenceposts at dusk, I’ve come to trust the same simple thing:

Not every blessing introduces itself early.
Some arrive gently, right on time—and sweeter for the wait.

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