Just a few more days. I’ve never had great expectations for Christmas gifts growing up, because my mom would always surprise us with the same gift of new pajamas, year after year. As a mother myself, I am now excited for my kids, who have no pajamas under the tree to complain about. But I don’t know how much better their diversity of gifts really is.
This year it will still be just about the girl, because the tiny one does not yet know what’s all the craziness about. He hasn’t even shown much interest in the new huge tree growing suddenly inside our living room where once used to be a bookshelf. He remains content with his small world composed of jumperoo, swing, crib and bumbo chair. It’s a good place to be. But I am looking forward to enjoying his Christmas too. Next year.
My daughter, who is phenomenally non-materialistic, doesn’t really care what she gets as long as she gets something to report to the other kids when asked about it. But she did tell us that if Santa gave her only books this year, she would be very happy. I know, I don’t know what good deeds I must have done to deserve this kid. Her request made me happy, because it was one with which we could actually comply, unlike last year when the Santa list included: “I want to read people’s minds” and “a time machine.”
The unsurprising pajama gifts of my childhood never threw the slightest shadow over the joy of my holidays. Because I had those special Christmas foods to look forward to. And I had a week’s vacation to enjoy. And there was that tree growing in the middle of the house that made everything sort of magical. There were those carols that filled me with tears. Like this one:
Every year I think about making Christmas less about the gifts and more about everything else. And when it comes to gifts, I think we might start a tradition of just book giving on Christmas. Yes, I think books will be the new pajamas. Merriment and joy to all.