I’ve always adored Christmas. When I was young, I would go crazy with anticipation. We were fairly poor growing up, but my parents refused (I know now) to get public assistance. My dad worked in backhoeing, and when the ground was frozen there wasn’t much for him to do. Some weeks the only income we had was the $20 my mom got from helping an elderly man in his home, Mr. Parsons. I was so thankful for Mr. Parsons. Still, there were days when all I had to take for lunch was a couple slices of bread. My mom doesn’t recall that and doesn’t necessarily think it’s true, but I recall it clearly.
Still, at Christmas, we were spoiled rotten. Through the year we didn’t get sugared cereal or pop or candy or toys. Somehow, my parents were able to give us four kids fabulous Christmases. We’d come down to a living room practically bursting with gifts. And we got up so early that by the time it was light, we were done opening and ready to start playing. I’ve had difficulties with my parents over the years, but I will always be grateful to them for making that time of year so magical for me. They must have saved all year, bought presents throughout the year, and/or gone into credit card debt to do it.
I was the kind of kid who believed in Santa Claus, hard, and could not be convinced otherwise. It was the magic I loved. Santa could be at my cousin’s house early so she could open her presents on Christmas Eve, and later come to my house so we could open ours Christmas morning. The writing on the tags was different because Santa was in a hurry, for Pete’s sake; this was not proof enough to disbelieve. I used to wish that I was one of our fish so that I could see Santa Claus just once. But I NEVER EVER wanted to peek and find my Christmas presents. I am all about surprises remaining surprises, the buildup and anticipation, all that.
Later, at around age 10 when I finally found out Santa wasn’t real (by way of walking in on my mom preparing Easter baskets—it all clicked for me that night), I still loved Christmas. I loved wrapping the gifts, and every day I’d come home and rearrange the gifts under the tree and check to see if there were any new ones under there. My mom would wrap up candy bars and packs of gum and tie them onto the tree. Every day we were allowed to take one present off the tree. We played with the ornaments in the tree. I got so sick with anticipation that one year I spent hours picking every single piece of tinsel out of our shag carpet. I put it in a bowl and fed it to my fake Cabbage Patch Doll.
But while writing about my love of Christmas and the magic of it all, I realized that one of the reasons I loved Christmas so much is because there was an unwritten rule no one dared disobey – there was no fighting on Christmas. My brothers didn’t make fun of me when I danced. I didn’t hit my little brothers and make them run crying to their room. Mom and Dad didn’t bicker, even though it annoyed the crap out of Mom that Dad could always guess his gifts. There was even one Christmas after they separated but before the divorce where Dad came over to hang out for Christmas, and they didn’t fight then, either. Our family had rules of engagement.
Back in the day, I didn’t even mind going to church on Christmas Eve, because it was part of the tradition. We got to sing the songs I loved, and when we got home some version of A Christmas Carol would be on TV, and we’d watch that until we were forced upstairs to bed. Today I’m agnostic, not Catholic, and yet I still love putting up my nativity scene that my mom made, which is close to the one my mom has that my aunt made for her. It’s a huge set, with 12” figurines and camels. I adore it. I put it on top of my piano, like my mom did every year. And even though my husband and I haven’t been able to buy each other presents at Christmas for years, I share my kids’ excitement and anticipation. I love Christmas, and I thank my parents for my unflagging adoration, even though they’d be annoyed at me for saying HAPPY HOLIDAYS, Y’ALL!!
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