I motion her back to bed and in an uncoordinated display of motherhood, lift my disproportionately weighted head off my pillow. Swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, I give my feet a few seconds to discover the floor before ping-ponging down the unlit hall.
My boy is nowhere to be found.
Alerted by his sister's presence, he has fled the scene of the crime and is already in hiding. Twelve years of parenting tells me that this is probably not a good sign, but since the twinkling glow of the tree does not reveal shreds of wrapping paper littering the living room floor, as I had imagined it would, I give him the benefit of the doubt.
I conclude that he too had probably gotten up to go to the bathroom and been lured by the presents' greatly anticipated first showing. More than likely, he had simply moved in for a closer look and, letting his fingers trace and weigh the shapes of the packages, ripped an end or poked a finger through in the process.
It would be a quick fix-- I would be back under my fuzzy blanket before it had time to miss me.
The problem comes when I can't find my tape.
I know that I had buried it down into the ribbon box because I had done so intentionally--or did I?
In an act of determination, I empty and re-stuff the container more times than what is reasonable before abandoning the act all together. Somewhat perplexed and defeated, I plop myself down onto the couch, and that is when I notice it waving at me from under the tree.
Pssst. Over here, by the scissors.
I. did. not. put. those. there.
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