Surprise

Sixteen years ago, I moved with my parents to central Copenhagen. It was the first of two trips I made there to live; I spent most of the months of this one attending a Danish high school and falling in love with a cute Danish boy. My mother spent her time exploring the city. One of the things that she found was the flagship store of the now-deceased designer Georg Jensen. She admired many of his things, and eventually decided to purchase a few Christmas tree candleholders as a reminder of our trip.

Two and a half years later, when I went back to the city to do a year of university, she asked for only one thing: more candleholders. It was on that trip that I also finally learned that his name was George Jensen, but gay-org yensen, because asking for George got me a ton of very confused looks from Danish folks.

Those candleholders were the bane of the family existence for years. Despite the carefulness of my mother and I, the rest of the family cringed each time they were brought out, with dire predictions of flaming Christmas trees and houses. Sometime over the past five years, the candleholders have been retired to preserve family peace. But they are works of art. Carefully wraught, perfectly balanced, simple but elegant.

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One of the silly bothersome things about my now-defunked marriage was that my husband never managed -- never bothered -- to surprise me for Christmas or birthday. I'm not sure this matters; I mean, I'm not a terribly materialistic person, and frankly some surprises suck, but there was something about it that smacked of carelessness. Surprising a woman with a present is easy: visit a nice jewelry store, or a spa, or plan a short weekend away. I can pretty much guarantee that 90% of women would be pleased by a small token from one or more of these things. And the fact that he never did always felt like he just didn't care. That he didn't want to bother.

Oh, I'm terribly one-sided with this, I admit. I don't think I ever surprised him, and I'm pretty sure I've never managed to gift The Man with something he wasn't expecting and was very  pleased to have. Maybe I should cut the ex some slack; maybe he just wasn't that good at gift-buying. But the hints I dropped really should have given him some clue.

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Earlier this fall on my usual trek to work and back, I spotted a poster in the window of a brand-new store in the classy (read: expensive) area of town. There was a familiar Danish name and a stunning piece of jewelry, and I admired it from afar whenever possible. Late last fall, returning to work in the afternoon from an appointment, I stopped at the store and went in. They had the ring I had always wanted. I hadn't known it, but I always wanted it. But alas, it was far beyond our current budget allotment, for gifts or Christmas or ... well, at all. But I wandered around the store admiring the items within, beautifully designed items for every room of your home! Now I don't know how much I need a teapot that's twice the price of any teapot I've ever seen, despite the fact that it's ten times more beautiful, but for the first time ever I realized as I walked around the store that someone could buy me any object from that store -- anything at all! -- and I would think it was beautiful. 

They gave me catalogues. Beautiful catalogues! In full colour! Five of them! And they've been sitting on my living room tables ever since. Weeks and weeks of admiring from afar. Thinking of the things I would buy if I had more money than God. Weeks of looking at items that to me hold a special place in my heart, reminders of the time I spent overseas, reminding me of good times and wonderful adventures.

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For Christmas this year we didn't return to the store. The Man had a few ideas for himself, and given our schedules I ended up purchasing two books for him while he was standing in the store with me; with an unhappy toddler I'm pretty sure he ended up purchasing the books himself. As for me, I went to the knitting store and purchased enough pretty wool for a new sweater. (I'll post which one and the wool later.) We had many great surprises for our child, and presents for ourselves, but no surprises. That's ok. We don't need them.

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Ten days ago I went to my parents' house two days earlier than The Man to give him a break, time to himself, a holiday from parenting and responsibility. Sunday was quite possibly the snowiest day of the year, and when I called him he was planning nothing more than sleeping and movie-watching and frozen-pizza eating in the comfort of his own home. 

On Christmas morning he passed me a shoebox that I had seen him wrap earlier that week. It was full of wool. In the excitement of the day, I pulled off the paper, distracted, watching my child unwrap things and enjoy his gifts. The wool was tightly packed into the box, "so it'll pop out when you open it!" enthused The Man. I left the box shut; after all, I knew what was in there, and I wanted it all to STAY there, so why not leave it taped up?

But The Man seemed to want it to pop, so to indulge him, later on, I opened the box. Let the wool pop out. Pulled some of it out to show my mother.

And found another small wrapped package.

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No, it wasn't the ring I had always wanted. It was a pendant -- something that didn't quite break the bank as much as the ring would have. But it's beautiful, quite possibly the most beautiful item I've owned. On his one Sunday off from parenting and work and housework, he braved the snow and the public transportation system to go to this store and find something that I would like. Something within our budget, but something beautiful all the same.

I'm not sure that his sacrificing his own time, his precious time for himself that neither of us has enough of, or the gift itself is the greater surprise, or the greater gift. Either way, it was nice to spend a Christmas morning knowing that I'm worth surprising, and worth making the effort for.