“Daddy and I won’t be able to give you a big present this year,” my mother said quietly.
“But why?” I asked, wondering what I’d managed to do in the last couple of weeks that had landed me in such hot water.
“We just can’t afford to buy your corrective shoes and an expensive gift this year. I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, pulling me to her. “You’ll still have lots of things under the tree,” she reassured me, ruffling my hair.
Why We Wrote This
Disappointment is a sour fact of life. But sometimes, as our essayist learned during one memorable childhood Christmas, not getting what you want is a gift.
The shoes in question were big-budget, brown, high-top horrors. They were meant to keep my arches supported and my toes pointed in the right direction. I’d had to wear them as long as I could remember.
Stung by this loss, I felt as if I’d swallowed a large rock that was quickly plunging to the pit of my stomach.
While both my parents were incredibly hard workers, we were never flush, and economies were necessary. Fortunately, my parents’ way with a penny and their ability to build, paint, glue, tack, spackle, caulk, and sew anything meant that we kids were rarely aware of this.
As the oldest of four, I was taught that it was my job to hang tough in the face of disappointment. Nonetheless, I took every opportunity to plaster on a long face whenever I happened to be within 10 feet of Mama during the first couple of days after hearing the terrible news. Then, hoping that guilt might do the trick, I decided to soldier on bravely. But no matter what I tried, nothing worked. Crushed, I was sure my Christmas was ruined.
But as the holidays drew closer, I started to realize the season was still magical. Mama wrapped presents and stacked them in the corner of the living room so my brother, sisters, and I could try to guess what was inside – a tradition I begged her to follow every year.
Boxes and bags of unknown origin were hidden under coats and rushed to the bedroom for wrapping long before a Douglas fir spread its branches in the corner of the living room. Twinkly lights framed windows, and festive tunes floated through the house. The sweet, spicy scent of gingerbread cream-cheese cookies studded with maraschino cherries and my mother’s famous stollen bread hung tantalizingly in the air.
When Christmas Day arrived, a part of me still wished that Mama had been wrong and a costly gift with my name on it was hidden somewhere under the tree. There was none. The truth is, I was hopelessly sorry for myself at first.
But as the day wore on, a part of me felt fortunate – fortunate to be the recipient of a sea of small presents now buried in abandoned wrapping paper. Fortunate to be safe and warm in our creaky old house. Fortunate to be embraced by the love of my noisy, imperfect family.
I forgot my disappointment in the rush of returning to school, but I’ll never forget coming home about a week later to find a cardboard box the size of a small house filling our living room.
“Open it, Chuckie,” Mama said, gesturing toward the huge thing. “It’s your big present.”
“It’s from your Grandpa, Grandma, Daddy, and me. We ordered it weeks ago, but when we found out it wouldn’t make it here by Christmas, I came up with that crazy story about only having enough money to buy your corrective shoes,” she explained. “I’m sorry you were disappointed, but I couldn’t figure out another way to explain things without spoiling the surprise.”
My brother, sisters, and the pack of kids my mother always babysat clustered around the mammoth cardboard structure, jumping up and down, beside themselves with excitement.
Overwhelmed by my family’s generosity in the face of my sulkiness, I burst into tears. Unsteadily, I opened the box. Inside was a gleaming, brand-new bicycle just for me. Tracing a finger over the shiny new handlebars, I ran to my mother and gave her a giant hug. “Merry Christmas, Chuckie,” she said.
Looking back on that long-ago holiday, I realize the disappointment of thinking I wasn’t getting a big gift was, in fact, a gift. I got my first glimpse of the true meaning of Christmas that year. It helped me realize that the holiday wasn’t just about what was under the tree, but about sharing the joy of the season with the people I loved.
