I am totally kicking myself. Hard. Earlier this year, Jason made it quite clear what he wanted for Christmas. A no-brainer, right? It really should have been. It’s just that I didn’t want to get him the five-disc ultimate collector’s edition of Blade Runner. I can’t explain why, exactly, I just really, really didn’t want to. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to have it; it’s just that I didn’t want it to be his Christmas present from me. I wanted to get him something more, I don’t know, “wifely,” I guess.

So I didn’t get it for him. (And true confessions here, I didn’t have any better ideas . . . or any ideas at all this year, so my poor husband’s Christmas from me was, well, just lame. Ugh.) He got it for himself instead. No problem, I thought.

But then it came in the mail today. And he was soooooo excited about it (I have no doubt he’ll be posting pictures and whatnot soon). And even though he admitted that he was overdoing his excitement just a little to rub it in that I wasn’t the one who bought it for him (he’s not above it), it still made me sad that I had stupidly missed an opportunity to bless my husband. I still would have thought it was a little ridiculous, and I still would have rolled my eyes at him, but I would have secretly been proud that he liked his gift so much. It would have been so easy, and I’m guessing that his joy would probably have outweighed my frumpiness about the gift I didn’t really understand. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.