Three days before Thanksgiving, as we drove into town on a dull, gray morning, Firstborn jabbed at the numbers on my cell phone with teenage urgency.

Hey, she told her mother, why haven't we got any Thanksgiving decorations up? Mrs. G. responded, coolly: Hey back. I was hoping we could just skip that holiday and go straight to Christmas.

But I was thinking: Hey, why not just skip the whole Christmas prelude and go directly to the prime-rib dinner? That way I won't have to go shopping.

Trust me, the thought of shopping leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Please don't get me wrong. I enjoy the spirit of Christmas. But Christmas is a lot of work.

All the running around buying things at the last minute is a lot of humbug. Wrapping presents requires patience, which I lack.

And there are always too many Christmas cards to write: Hey, here we are again, oh my, we've been busy, the children are older, Merry Christmas, next card, please.

Honestly, what man can get enough of that?

Still, shopping is the part I dread. A man can't talk his way out of going to a crowded mall to buy his wife Christmas presents.

Personally, it's not the crowded malls or surly cashiers that scare me. It's the question I struggle to answer every year: What will Mrs. G. want this time?

She tells me I should know, that after all these blissful years of marriage, I should know the answer simply by ... observing.

Sometimes I daydream about my answer.

Never going to happen, Honey. Instead, make me a list (please) and include sizes, colors, styles, stores most likely to have what you want, and whether you will have time to wrap them for me to give back to you.

Wouldn't cash be simpler? How about a nice new credit card? Want a bow on it?

Fortunately for me, I have developed a secret weapon to guide me through the mall: the Little Darlings.

For two years now, my daughters and I have made a shopping pilgrimage to the nearest mall. They know everything. Sizes! Styles! What Mrs. G. wants!

Without them, I'd be lost.

They're wise beyond their tender years, born shoppers. They know spaghetti straps from flannel. They are far from perfect guides, however.

Last year, we were in Williams-Sonoma when I saw a holiday plate of tasty-looking treats.

The girls saw it, too. Looked like granola. Smelled delicious, like crumbled candy canes — a reward for my shopping wisdom. Tasted like ... oh, the little rascals ... like dirt. It was peppermint potpourri.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com.