With Father’s Day coming up, the kids and I have been running secretive errands to find the perfect gift.
I pitched it to the kids as a reconnaissance mission, rather than a “I need to go to the mall to find something for Daddy and I’m dragging you with me.”
Rest assured, we have also secured the standard home-made, heart-tugging, sentimental gifts to present as well. But sometimes you just need a little Wow Factor to hand to the paternal figure in the house.
However, I’m not that great of a gift finder.
You probably have one of those people in your life, right? That one person who always procures the perfect gift that strikes the right balance of uniqueness and suitability to your personality. They manage to hunt down items you didn’t even know existed but now can’t live without. And they get all their Christmas shopping done in October.
I am not one of these people.
I’ve had brief moments of brilliance, but they’ve been few and far between. For my first anniversary to my husband, I culled all of our emails during our long-distance relationship, relegated a specific font and color to each sender, printed that sucker off and bound it in to a book. You know, with paper being the Hallmark-required first anniversary gift. I felt like Martha Stewart reincarnate.
And I haven’t done a thing like that since.
We’ve instead resorted to some standard gifts that we come to rely on year after year. Jon knows that he will probably receive new running shoes for either his birthday or Christmas, so I don’t even bother to hide the fact that I’m looking for his shoe size. And I know that my perfume will be replenished on my birthday each fall.
For his sister and brother-in-law, we’ve established a tradition of finding the most tacky and gaudy bottle opener we can find (preferably with a magnet to be displayed for all to see on their fridge). There is a Cat Fancy magazine that circulates amongst the Christmas stockings, and it’s a roulette wheel of luck each year as to who gets stuck with it.
But nothing tops The Obscenity Shirt.
One year, while we were living in New York City, Jon had a friend come in to town. While this friend was out and about seeing the sights, he came upon a t-shirt that he thought would be a perfect gift for Jon, and presented it to him during dinner at a very fancy schmancy restaurant.
At first glance, it was just a solid black shirt, daring in its simplicity. But as Jon unfurled the garment, his face squished in laughter as he turned it around to reveal these words in bold white print:
Too good not to share, we wrapped that brilliance up in a bow and gave it to Jon’s brother-in-law that Christmas. The next year, the brother-in-law gave it to Jon’s mom. The next, it was gifted to a great-aunt with an impressive sense of humor for someone over 80. It went to Jon’s youngest sister the year after that.
And then, it abruptly stopped.
Because our kids were finally able to read.
It’s a shame, really. I loved that tradition. I loved the surprise of forgetting the shirt even existed, and then seeing someone open it up on Christmas Day. The resignation that you were the target of that shirt that year. That this shirt, in all it’s vulgarity, had become a standard holiday custom.
Perhaps, as the kids get older, much, much, much older, we can resume this inheritance. Maybe even bringing them in to the fold. And relishing in the delight of seeing them receive this time-honored bestowal.
Because this will make a fantastic Father’s Day present one year.
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