In gearing up for Christmas this year, I’ve been thinking a lot about my children. How to help them build good memories of Christmas while balancing our needs versus their wants. I thought back to my own childhood and realized that they may get what they want without even asking for it, or possibly even without knowing that they want it.
It was December, 1976 and I was seven. We were a fairly affluent family, and the Christmas tease begun the first week of December. The Christmas tree (always perfectly trimmed) was erected and the present parade would begin. Whoever said that anticipation was nine tenths of the fun, obviously didn’t agonize over brightly wrapped Christmas packages for three solid weeks. That was near torture for someone who had nothing of great import to do. There were Christmasy distractions for my brother and me, making ornaments and candy, listening to “The Cinnamon Bear”, drinking egg nog and singing along with Perry Como on the Hi-Fi. But our eyes always wandered to the ever growing pile of gifts. One of the only times of year we voluntarily hung out with each other and had a really good time.
My Christmas wish list was never extensive. Even now, I can only recall three items I wanted over my lifetime of Christmases, and all of them were wanted prior to my tenth Christmas. The items in question were the soundtrack to “Saturday Night Fever”, a doll house, and an apron. The Christmas of '76, it was the apron that was the object of my desire. My grandmother had an apron, and it made her look so “kitchen efficient”, and that’s what I wanted to be too. And I wanted that in only the way a child can want something.
Daily I would check to see if mom had added anything new that looked like it might be an apron. If I found a squishy package, I’d squeeze it and hope that it was the deeply desired “kitchen efficency” in a garment. The anticipation was almost painful. I didn’t find anything that seemed to be the right dimension or weight. I waited and hoped that my request had been noticed by someone with the power to bring it to fruition.
Finally, Christmas Eve, the night we opened our gifts, arrived. We were very civilized about opening our packages. One person would be “Santa”, passing out one package at a time, and waiting until that gift had been opened for all to see, then proceeding onto the next. I opened gift after gift. Clothes from mom and dad, a doll from mom and dad, a pogo stick from Santa, not a hint of an apron, a puzzle from Santa, a game from my grandparents, a towel from my brother.
A towel? Not just any towel, but a familiar towel. One from the set with purple dragonflies and pink flowers with giant lime green leaves. One of my favorite towels to boot. My first thought was “Great, he’s giving me something that I already use”. I took it out of it’s wrappings for the obligatory picture taking of gift and recipient, and discovered that I couldn’t completely unfold it. It was sewn across the middle and a large loop of elastic was attached to it. I couldn’t quite figure out what it’s purpose was, perhaps a cape a la super hero?
It was then that someone helped me to figure out what the purpose of the thing was. I don’t recall whether it was my mother or my brother who came to my aid, but someone slipped the elastic loop over my head and shoulders, bringing it to rest on my waist. The towel was now neatly folded and draped around my waist. It was an apron! Admitedly it wasn’t what I was expecting. I was on the look out for something with frills and pockets, that was girly and efficient looking, which this wasn’t.
Someone had heard my humble request, and fulfilled it, and it came from the least expected source. Until Christmas Eve 1976, I thought that my brother only heard annoyances and complaints issued forth from me. I got a homemade apron for Christmas. One that required thought and planning. But even better, I got an overwhelming sense of being loved, being heard, and an immeasurable amount of pride in having such a great brother. Just what I wanted for Christams, without even knowing it.
Feel free to add your own memories.
