I wonder what she will remember. What small parts about this coming Christmas will stay with my daughter in the years ahead.   

When I reflect on the Christmases of my own childhood, at first it feels like a bit of a blur–a jumble of smells, colors, and feelings. The anticipation and excitement, comparing whadugets with my friends, searching the aisles of Cox’s Department Store and the Ben Franklin Five & Dime for gifts for my parents. 

I remember making construction paper chains to count down the days until Christmas. When the big day arrived, we’d start by dumping our lumpy stockings onto the living room rug, and coax our dogs into unwrapping their presents. (Then try to stop them from unwrapping ours.) 

I remember lying beneath our aluminum tree, looking up through the branches as the color wheel turned, my head resting on our stuffed Santa’s big belly. (The Santa with the hard plastic boots that kept falling off, revealing that Santa had disturbing blunt stumps instead of feet.) 

I remember the excitement when Aunt Wilma’s Annual Big Box of Strange Gifts would arrive from California, which felt back then like the other side of the world. 

I remember the Christmas Eve services at church where everyone would get white candles with the cardboard rings to keep the melting wax from dripping onto our hands, and how my brother Kurt and I would try to make it all the way home without our flame going out. How he and I would elbow each other and share a laugh over our parents, who walked slow, holding hands. 

I remember waking up over and over again on Christmas (the longest night of the year), and how my brother would eventually tiptoe into my room and we’d sit together on my bed watching the minutes creep by until we couldn’t wait anymore. 

I remember the sound made by the empty foil wrappers of our chocolate coins. The grins on our dog’s faces as they walked around with bows stuck to their heads. The smell of Mom’s cold dough cakes cooling on the counter, drizzled with powdered sugar and oozing cherry or pineapple filling, as we played new board games all afternoon. We ate at the dining room on the good dishes, and I’d fall asleep with whatever present it was that I loved the most.

Christmases are so different now. I wonder if those who are children now will someday remember their Decembers as just a crazed, frantic time, a time when their parent’s anxiousness over all that needs done spilled onto them, staining their memories, making them believe this time of year means added work, too-full schedules, and more money worries. 

Christmases are different now since in most homes, both parents work. And since all too often, the parents are no longer together. The holiday ends up being split–Christmas Eve with Dad, Christmas Day with Mom. Children being shuttled from one to the next, hurrying to fit in grandparents and stepfamilies, trying to match schedules with divorced siblings and their kids.   

They have toys that require batteries instead of imagination, hyped by the annual onslaught of commercials that somehow convince children (and parents) that not having That Toy under the tree must mean they aren’t loved. 

But this year, just like last, I’ll find time for my daughter and me to lie on the floor, looking up through the shiny branches of that same aluminum tree I had as a kid, while the same color wheel spins. Our heads resting on the same old stumpy Santa. She’ll dump out a lumpy stocking and we’ll eat Mom’s cold dough cakes and spend Christmas day playing board games. 

And I’ll pray that the memories she keeps with her will be as cherished as mine.  

This entry was posted on Friday, December 15th, 2006 at 1:47 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.