Then they caught my eye. “Oh-So-Soft Lavender Pin Dot Nursing Pajamas.” Barbara is a Registered Nurse and loves all things lavender. How clever was I? I’d managed to find a personal gift with time to spare. All I needed was a couple of stocking stuffers and I’d be golden.
Christmas morning arrived with all the festive touches. Lighted tree, fireplace aglow. Warm cinnamon buns rested on a glistening new granite kitchen countertop. And a set of pajamas just waiting to be opened sat under the Christmas tree.
Without ever acknowledging that both parties broke the no-gift rule, we began to unwrap our presents. Baking supplies for me. Lindt chocolates and a final unwrapped gift for her. “TO: Barbie, FROM: Mikey,” the tag read.
“Oh! I love the color,” she exclaimed with joyful enthusiasm. “And so soft.” It looked like the PJs were a hit. Barb pulled them from the tissue-lined box and held them up to be sure they would fit. “Perfect fit,” she assured me.
Barbara’s twenty-eight-year-old daughter Shannon was visiting and seemed to approve as well.
“Are those buttons on the shoulders?” she asked her mom. Even though I hadn’t recalled seeing shoulder buttons from the Internet pictures, I thought they added a nice touch.
“What kind of pajamas did you say these were?” Shannon asked me. “Nurse’s pajamas,” I replied. “See? The top looks like hospital scrubs. They’re pajamas for a nurse.”
As if on cue, both Barbara and Shannon laughed about as loudly as I’d ever heard. Before they explained, it dawned on me why they were so amused.
“See? The buttons allow these flaps to...” Yes, I got it. Those weren’t hospital scrubs. I bought nursing pajamas for a woman who, as far as I knew, would never need them again.
But Barbara loved them and wore them to bed later that Christmas night. And not once did she question my motivation for giving her a shoulder-buttoned pajama top for nursing mothers!
~Mike Morin
How I Spent My Christmas Vacation
By and large, mothers are the only workers who do not have regular time off.
They are the great vacationless class.
~Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Day One: Here’s a parenting tip for the New Year; never ground your children from the Nintendo and the Xbox the day before Christmas vacation begins! However, I managed to keep four boys busy decorating cookies. The over-use of cinnamon dots left our snowmen looking rather bloody, but the boys seemed to enjoy that.
Day Two: I thought it would be fun to spend the afternoon singing Christmas carols, but if I hear “Jingle Bells, Santa Smells” one more time, I’m going to scream! I took our oldest son out to buy presents for his brothers. He is really thoughtful. Too thoughtful. Two hours too thoughtful. I’ve never spent two hours in the Dollar Store before today. I never will again.
Day Three: My husband isn’t speaking to me. He took our seven-year-old Christmas shopping. Many hours later they’re back. Having bested his brother’s shopping time, our younger son was quite pleased with himself. My husband, however, was not. “Have you ever spent THREE hours at the Dollar Store, trying to get a kid to spend his allowance on his brothers?” All I said was, “Why do you think I sent you?” Now it’s colder in here than it is outside.
Day Four: Since the current temperature is a whopping five degrees, it would be nice if there was snow on the ground. All we have is ice. Unable to bear the whining about the Nintendo, I bundled up the children and sent them out to play on the ice. They played happily for ten minutes. Unfortunately they discovered the painful difference between ice balls and snowballs. Hot cocoa soothed fragile nerves—until we ran out of marshmallows.
Day Five: It’s Christmas Eve. Eight hours with the in-laws, sixteen people for dinner and children who’ve discovered Grandma’s ceramic reindeer holds M&M’s. Around midnight, snow began to fall and silence descended as well. I filled the stockings to the soft strains of “Silent Night” and enjoyed the fragile peace.
Day Six: Christmas morning, 4 AM. “Mom! Mom! It’s Christmas! Santa came, he came!” Through the dim glow of the clock, I gaze blearily into the big, blue eyes of a wide-awake boy. “If you don’t get back in bed this instant, Santa is going to make a return trip to give you a lump of coal,” I growled. “It is NOT Christmas morning when you can see the moon and the street lights are on.” I kept the stocking and the child trudged back to bed. At this point I wasn’t even sure he was mine.
Day Six officially: Christmas morning, 6 AM. Ho Ho Ho! The blue-eyed boy came back. He really does belong to me.
Day Seven: The kids played happily. The Nintendo/Xbox ban has been lifted. Now I am the one that is whining. My pleas to the grandparents for restraint had once again fallen on deaf ears. Now, it’s been left to me to figure out where to put all this stuff. I waded through colorful debris and stepped on G.I. Joe’s pistol. I think it’s permanently embedded between my toes.
Day Eight: We are out of batteries already! Fights broke out over whose turn it is to play Nintendo. You’d think a forty-three-year-old man would be better at sharing.
Day Nine: The rain fell, the ice melted, the children whined and I cried.
Day Ten: I called the daycare on the corner to ask about their rates. “Oh are you going back to work?” the owner asked. “No,” I replied, “I’m going crazy.” She hung up on me.
Day 11: I staggered home from the mall where I exchanged one remote control car, which never “remotely” worked, one set of jammies labeled too lame to be worn by a twelve-year-old and one set of dishes so hideous that they prove beyond all doubt, I am NOT my grandmother’s favorite. My husband greeted me at the door, waving the Visa bill. I turned to run, but could still hear him bellow, “Can you explain this one-way ticket to Hawaii?”
Day 12: When I was a child, Christmas vacation seemed to last a couple of seconds, but now I understand why Mom would cross each day of vacation off the calendar in bright red marker. Four lunches are packed and ready to go. Four backpacks wait by the front door. I realized I might have been rushing things when my oldest child refused to get out of bed. I checked the clock. It was 5 AM. The streetlights still shone and the moon was faintly visible in the dusky sky. I sat down in the living room and smiled as I sipped my coffee. I’ll let the children sleep a little bit longer while I enjoy the first day of MY Christmas vacation.
~Cindy Hval
Yeah, and I’m the Easter Bunny!
Mirth is God’s medicine. Everybody ought to bathe in it.
~Henry Ward Beecher
Christmas was inching closer and closer. At least it seemed that way to we kids who were anxious to hear the last blissful school bell that would herald our holiday vacation. Dad was out of town, Mom was at the grocery store, and my sister and oldest brother were off visiting friends. At the impressionable young age of thirteen, I was in charge.
Being entrusted with the care of my little brothers wasn’t a typical thing at that tender age. My mom was in a babysitter’s club where the mothers took turns watching each other’s kids but the urgent need to run to the store arose unexpectedly without time to arrange for another sitter.
Taking my grown-up position of responsibility with the utmost sobriety, I was diligently watching my brothers who were four and six. With the boys engrossed in a TV show, my job had been easy so far. I sure never expected anything else.
When heavy footsteps clomped onto the front porch and a big fist banged on the door, adrenalin shot through my young frame. Mother’s instructions had been strict: don’t open the door to anyone! I planned to follow them to the letter. Summoning courage, I asked who was there, fully expecting a reply from a well-known neighbor or friend.
“Santa Claus!” A deep, booming voice cried to my surprise.
Right. Certain the fellow on the porch was not who he claimed, I ran to the bathroom and peeked out the small, high window that looked onto the porch. Whoever had knocked stood just out of view. Unfortunately, our front window looked out to the yard and street but not the dr
iveway. Seeing no car, or sleigh with reindeer for that matter, I sprinted back to the door.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to come back later.” My words were firm.
“It’s Santa, let him in!” clamored the boys as I whispered that it was not the real Kris Kringle.
“Ho, Ho, Ho!” our mysterious caller bellowed. “I’ve come to see the Sullivans. Can you ask your mother to come to the door?” Yikes! Now what to do? If I told him Mom wasn’t home, we’d be sitting ducks. This guy could be some crazed yuletide killer like the ones dreamed up for that spooky Alfred Hitchcock show.
“Who are you really?” I asked with more courage than I felt.
“It’s Santa Claus.” The voice boomed again.
“Yeah, and I’m the Easter Bunny!” I sniped defiantly. “You can’t come in. Go away!” I waited breathlessly for him to leave as the boys raced back to the window in hopes of catching a glimpse. Muttering something I couldn’t make out, the pseudo-Santa finally plodded down the steps.
Unnerved by the encounter, I shooed the boys back into the den to watch TV and wait for Mom’s return. Before my poor mother was even through the door, the saga of our Santa stalker came gushing out.
“I didn’t let him in, Mom!” I beamed with pride.
“Oh, no!” Mom slapped a hand to her forehead. “I forgot.”
“Forgot what?” I was confused.
“Mr. Simons.” After assuring me I had done the right thing, she made a beeline for the phone. Within moments, Mom was apologizing profusely to the husband of one of the babysitter club members who had kindly agreed to play Santa for the kids in the club. In the craziness of preparations for the holidays, dealing with a houseful of kids, and the unexpected trip to the store, she had forgotten the big guy was scheduled to visit.
Looking back, I know she was pleased we were all safe and sound. But it’s more than likely my ever proper and polite mother was as mortified by my smart aleck “And I’m the Easter Bunny” retort as she was by forgetting the appointment. The tale soon grew to legendary proportions and remains a favorite chapter in our family’s colorful repertoire.
~Nancy Sullivan
The Secret’s Out
I am extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.
~Margaret Thatcher
“Mommy! What’s that?” three-year-old Avery peered into the cart.
Pretending I didn’t hear, I scanned the holiday merchandise with studied concentration and tried to ignore her. Earlier, when I thought she wasn’t looking, I had slipped a fairy-themed coloring book between the mounds of groceries, knowing it would make the perfect stocking stuffer for my bright little sprite who adored all things girly.
Avery persisted. “Mommy! I see something. What is it?”
I tried to distract her. “Avery, look at this Care Bear. Do you think baby Gavin would like it?”
She refused to be distracted. Her gamine face focused only on the glimpse of tiny fairy wings teasing her from the cart. “Mommy! What is that? Can I see it? Please?” Her head full of blond curls bounced in her excitement. “It looks like something I would like.”
With a deep sigh, I moved the boxes of Cheerios aside, pulled the coloring book from its useless hiding place, and handed it over to her. Avery’s blazing blue eyes widened with excitement.
“I was going to give you this as a Christmas present,” I explained, a tad peeved. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
Her expression froze. I knew how terrible she always felt when a surprise was spoiled, and I worried that she would start crying right there in the Super Walmart. Already, a small frown creased her pixie brow. Yet when I started to console her, she interrupted.
“But, Mommy—I already have lots of presents under the tree. And I got to open the new nightie Grammy made me. And the book Pops sent.” She peered earnestly into my eyes. “I don’t really need this for Christmas, Mommy.”
Her sweet selflessness melted my heart. When had she matured? I beamed with pride at her generous attitude.
“I don’t need this for Christmas, Mommy,” my wee enchantress insisted with a charitable bob of her head. Avery hugged the coveted coloring book closer to her chest and announced pointedly, “I need it right NOW!”
~Kayla Rehme Crockett as told to Carol McAdoo Rehme
I’ve Got a Secret
If there is any larceny in a man, golf will bring it out.
~Paul Gallico
In November, my stepdaughter Christy came up with a new plan for Christmas. “This year, we all put our names in a hat and everyone picks just one person to buy for,” she announced excitedly.
“But what if someone who doesn’t know what I like draws my name?” I asked.
“Dude, all you ever want is golf stuff. How hard is that?”
“What about Leila and Charlie?”
“Everyone gets them gifts.”
“What? No fair!”
“They’re kids....”
I stomped my foot and stuck out my lower lip.
“... little kids.”
So even though I was still worried about not getting all the stuff I so richly deserved, I warmed to the plan. For one thing I hate to shop, and for another, my gifts aren’t always appreciated.
“What is this?” my wife asked last year.
“It’s a cap cleaner. You put it on your baseball caps and they keep their shape when you wash them.”
That’s when she reminded me she didn’t wear caps and I realized I’d totally wasted three bucks.
“Okay, I’m in,” I said.
So, Carl, Christy, Jon, Patrick, Shane, Ashley, my wife and I all put our names in a hat and we drew.
Five minutes after we drew Christy asked: “So, who’d you get?”
“I thought this was supposed to be a secret Santa.”
“Well, yeah, just tell me... not everyone.”
“You know,” I said. “Years ago I worked at this company in New Hampshire. Every day it seemed like someone would come up to me and say, ‘Don’t tell anyone, but...’ The thing was I never told anyone, so I became known as a dead link and pretty soon people stopped telling me secrets because I kept them to myself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Christy said. “That’s a great story. Now who do you have?”
I smiled and did the old zipper lip thing.
“You know I’ll figure it out.” She tried to pry the paper from my hand but I crumpled it up and shoved it deep into my pocket.
“Freak,” Christy said, then stomped away.
And that was that—until I suddenly realized it was December and remembered that I had to actually buy a gift, so I raced off to the mall. That’s when I called Christy.
“What’s the spending limit?” I asked.
“No real limit. Why?”
“Well, I was looking at games that come in a frame. You hang them up like art when you’re not playing.”
“Ah ha! Games. You must have Shane or Ashley. They love games.”
“Nope. Not Shane or Ashley,” I said and hung up.
Ten minutes later I called again. “They’ve got these incredible photo tiles in a frame—scenes of Santa Barbara and Catalina Island. Way cool.”
“Tiles! Mom loves tiles. Ha-ha, youuu’vvvve got Mmmommmm.”
“No, it’s not your mother,” I said, then hung up. I now realized this was the most fun I’d ever had shopping.
The next call I placed to my wife, perhaps the second worst secret keeper in the family. “They’ve got this engraving cart set up down here at the mall. Do you think a silver flask is a good gift?”
“No,” she said.
Two minutes later Christy called. “Ha. Mom called. Only Jon would ever want an engraved silver flask. Gotcha.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “So now I’m in the calendar store. Wow, there’s a great surf calendar.”
“You’ve got Carl!” she yelled in triumph.
“Oh wait, here’s the great chefs of the world calendar comp
lete with recipes.”
“Patrick,” she yelled so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“Nope,” I said.
“Well that only leaves... ME!”
“Gotta go,” I said.
“Clothes!” she yelled. “Jewelry! No spending limit....”
I hung up. Then I left the mall and went to another shop.
“Don’t suppose you gift wrap?” I asked as I laid my purchase on the counter.
“Sorry, we don’t wrap,” he said. “But if this is a gift, then someone sure got lucky this year. This is a real beauty.”
I beamed with pride, grabbed my purchase and headed for the door.
“Ernie?” the guy said, just as I got to the door.
“Yes?”
“You dropped this.” He held out a crumpled piece of paper.
“Oh. Just throw that away, will ya? It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
Then I went home to wrap up my brand new three-wood.
~Ernie Witham
Ho Ho Ho, Ouch!
If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older.
~Tom Stoppard
As Christmas was approaching, my husband and I decided that a perfect gift for our then three-year-old son would be a battery-operated motorcycle similar to the real one my husband rode in his free time. We knew our son would love it. After searching in what seemed like every store in our area for just the right replica, we finally found it. The purchase was made and it was stored in our bedroom closet.
We talked about our purchase during the weeks leading up to Christmas, anticipating the joy it would bring to our son. But, being parents new to this toy assembly job, we never anticipated the amount of time that it would require to put the motorcycle together. We thought that Christmas Eve would be the perfect time to start the job. We always go to a family Christmas Eve celebration so this meant that it was already 9 PM, after our son was fast asleep, before we could even get the box out of the closet and begin the assembly. Big mistake!
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic Page 16
