Reflections On Holidays Past And Lessons Learned

My childhood Christmas's, as a rule, were pretty shitty. This was not because we were too poor to afford the cool toys I saw on television (that didn't start until my teen years), or because Dad hit Mom after tossing back a few too many whiskey drinks. The Christmas tree never caught on fire, and no one ever had to go to the hospital.

The problem was that while opening my presents, it was always glaringly obvious that my parents had no idea what I liked, or what I was interested in. Their choices made it clear that they did not listen to me when I talked to them, and they literally knew NOTHING about me.

The trend started at age seven...

My eyes popped open, as they did every year, at 5:30. We could not open presents until 6:30, AFTER I had prepared a pot of coffee for my step-dad. I was, however, free to play with my Santa gift. I rushed to the tree, my cabbage baby tucked under my arm, sure I'd find the Cabbage Patch Kid high-chair and feeding kit (with pre-packaged food that you "JUST MIX WITH WATER!") I'd asked for.

Instead, I found that Santa Claus had delivered me a motherfucking desk.

I was sure that there had been a mistake. This was not my desk. It wasn't even cool looking. Just a plain, oak desk with three drawers.

I had been a good girl, dammit! How was I supposed to feed my cabbage baby a desk?

Sure that my parents could solve this mix-up by contacting the North Pole, I timidly knocked on their bedroom door.

"What?" yelled my step-dad.

"Santa Claus came," I called back.

"Come in, tell me what Ol' Santy Claus brought you for Christmas, baby Reb."

"Dad," I said, my voice cracking, "Santa Claus brought me the wrong present."

"What did he bring you?"

"A desk," I wailed, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Shut up that squallin'. He didn't bring you the wrong present. Santy told me that he was bringin' you a desk, 'cause he knows how smart you are, and he wants you to get a sholarship."

That was NOT the answer I was looking for. I hadn't even finished elementary school, and Santa was already pressuring me about college.

The Christmas improved slightly when we opened presents, and I got the cassette of Cyndi Lauper, She's So Unusual. I still had to look at the desk while I listened to it, which put a slight damper on my enjoyment of "She-Bop".

The Tradition Continues...

Age 8: I got a microscope from Santy. He was really pushing for that scholarship, apparently.

Age 10:I can't remember what I got, because
A: I did not like it, nor did I ask for it
B: My little sister got a motorized tricycle that she used to zoom all over the apartment complex. I watched jealously.

Age 12:I got a leather motorcycle jacket. I do not know why.

Age 13:My mom divorced my first step-dad, which was actually a fantastic gift. Unfortunately, she negated the positive by shacking up with my second step-dad. He was a former bootcamp instructor and present-day meth head that decided he was going to whip me into shape. We did not get along.

Age 14:The Christmas of the Rhodesian Ridgebacks. Those dogs tried to chew apart the house, and everything in it. It was not their fault, but I still do not understand why my mother thought it would be a good idea to adopt TWO of these massive dogs, and move them into our tiny trailer.

Age 15:I asked for combat boots, because I loved metal, and it seemed the proper footwear for loving metal. Instead, I was given an entire wardrobe of tie-dyed broom skirts and grandma shoes (pointy toed with a low heel...definitely not metal). Metal and hippy skirts do not mix.

Age 16:A fistfight with my mother that ended with a destroyed Christmas tree. I won, then I cried because I felt horribly guilty.

It's Really The Thought That Counts (cliches exist for a reason)

This Christmas, I will spend time with my family and friends. We will talk and laugh, and perhaps, exchange gifts. Unlike my parents, I listen when Dot talks, and have selected gifts she will enjoy (for some reason, she is really into skulls and microscopes this year). My happiness no longer depends on gifts, because I know people, not things, bring me happiness. If I do receive gifts, it will be apparent that my people understand me, and that's all I really want. A little understanding.
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