My grandchildren have reached the sweet spot of childhood, the moment that trembles on the cusp between full childhood and the beginning of its end.

They have discovered the thrill of giving.

The thrill of getting is like sugar appreciation: It comes naturally. It takes no effort, requires no practice. The more nuanced thrill of giving makes an appearance around age ten, sometimes sooner, especially when an older sibling leads the way.

My daughters bloomed with the thrill of giving when they were roughly eleven and eight. Suddenly the conspiratorial aspect of Christmas was largely on their side. They held secret meetings to plot and plan, they came to my husband and me with mysterious requests, including the loan of our credit cards, and you’d have thought the UPS delivery driver was a personal friend, the way they jumped to take packages from his hands.

Together they selected such solid, long-lasting gifts as a popcorn pan, an enormous painted crockery bowl (for popcorn), and a large L.L. Bean elf intended as a Christmas tree-topper. They also, one memorable year, planned, shopped for, prepared and served us a dinner. And when I say, “shopped for,” I mean they bought everything they needed, down to the salt, pepper, and various spices, which later joined the salt, pepper, and spices already in the cupboard.

Now here are their children, bursting with secrets and anticipation. A picture of my older grandson on Christmas morning says it all. His entire being is tense with anticipation as he watches his brother open the gifts he’d selected for him. (A short aside: Included in his gifts were two long-eared, long-nosed plush dogs; a small dog and a smaller dog. Their new owner brought them to our house later, where I presented him with a gift from his grandfather and me: a third long-eared, long-nosed plush dog, plucked from the same bin in the same store as the others. By Christmas evening, the family of three were named Flip, Flop, and Friends. (Don’t look for logic. This is a boy who gave his own parents the nicknames Musical Coconut and Unassuming Starfish. We don’t ask why.))

All three grandchildren this year focused on the gifts they gave as much, it seemed, as on the ones they received.

But here is what I came to say:

My birthday also falls in December (a terrible month for a birthday, by the way), and while all of my gifts were lovely, a handmade birthday card from that older grandson stood out.

Some time ago, my grandsons and I began reading F. E. Higgins’s The Black Book of Secrets. The 2007 book had belonged to their father’s half-brother, who had left it behind when he moved to the west coast.

Over the course of weeks, we read the often-harrowing tale of Ludlow Fitch’s escape from an abusive household to a small village where he finds a home with Joe Zabbidou, a pawnbroker who pays for people’s darkest secrets.

A number of sinister characters live in this book, people who are as evil, greedy and remorseless a bunch as you find in the news today. These boys aren’t fond of grisly tales, but the story pulled us on until we reached — breathlessly — what I recognized as a critical point: Ludlow and a friend break Zabbidou’s only rule. When they do —

“Stop reading! Stop reading!” my listeners said. I confess I was willing to stop, for a moment, at least, to catch my breath before galloping on.

The boys needed more than a moment. Time passed, and we didn’t gallop on. Weeks, then months later, we started saying, “Where’s The Black Book of Secrets?” Eventually the question became, “Remember The Black Book of Secrets?”

At the same time, of course, they were doing homework, learning robotics, playing sports, mountain biking, taking music lessons...Growing, in other words. Getting older. Invisibly at first, until suddenly, it seems, the changes are obvious.

The change was obvious when I read this boy’s birthday note to me. First, a birthday greeting, and then: “I would like to sometime restart The Black Book of Secrets because it was very intriguing while we were reading it.”

Oh.

Not only finish it, but as he wisely suggested, restart it and then finish it. Share the story together again, and this time, see it all the way through.

That is a gift, and my gratitude is enormous. 

I hope his brother also will listen again. Reading scary passages always feels safer with three.