My
eldest daughter, Elana,
is almost four. She’s beginning to understand giving, and more
importantly to
her, receiving. To Elana, December is a magical month filled
with Hanukkah,
Christmas, parties, presents, and cakes. It’s a time when
Daddy doesn’t go to
work and we all visit the grandparents in Oregon. Since we
live in San
Francisco, it’s the one time of the year we see snow, even if
just for only an
hour or two.
I
remember vividly the
Christmas I was her age. My older brother and I lived with our
mom in a small
duplex on West Second Street, a few blocks from McMinnville’s
small, and then
depressed, downtown. Our parents had been unpleasantly and
somewhat bitterly
divorced for a few years and my mom, who had just finished
earning her
elementary teaching degree at a local college, was a
first-year teacher in a
very deprived Native American town, a few miles down Highway
99. Our savings
account was empty, if not nonexistent, and my mom was
struggling to get off welfare.
Even
though I was only
three and a half, I remember understanding that Santa wasn’t
going to be able
to come that Christmas. My brother and I knew that we had less
money than some
of our friends at preschool and we prepared ourselves to
expect little under
the tree come Christmas morning.
*
* *
On Christmas Eve, my
mom, Sam, and I gathered
near the tree to sing Christmas songs, eat sugar cookies, and
open one present
each. The living room was sparse of furniture: a couch, chair,
coffee table,
and a lamp or two casting a dim light on the tender family
moment. However, I
also remember a large, impressive tree, standing higher than
the tallest member
of our family, my five-foot-two mother. The tree was decorated
with lights,
tinsel, ornaments, and candy canes, and was as close to
perfection as a toddler
could imagine.
That
night, I opened a
present from my Aunt Chris. Although I can’t picture the exact
toy, I recall a
distinct aroma of strawberry shortcake lingering on my pudgy
fingers long after
I went to bed. My brother and I went to sleep excited to play
with our new toys
and even more eager to unwrap the few remaining presents that
still lay
unopened beneath the tree.
I
lay in my bed listening
for sounds of Santa but knowing that he was a very busy man
and might not make
it to our house. Still, I listened for footsteps on the roof
and a jolly old
man crashing through our chimney (although we didn’t have
one). I imagined his
sled skidding to a stop on our rain-covered roof and the
reindeer waiting patiently
for Santa to complete his duties.
The
next morning, Sam and I
awoke at dawn to find the cookies we’d left for Santa—and the
carrots we’d left
for his reindeer—appropriately missing. However, under the
tree lay a large
bag, bigger than anything I could have imagined, filled with
toys. The toys
weren’t wrapped, and they weren’t fancy. I remember dolls and
cars, trains and
blocks—the kind of toys one imagines Santa’s elves creating at
the North Pole.
Santa
came, and he left his
whole sack! Sam and I looked to our mom in disbelief. “Mom,”
we whispered,
“Santa forgot his sack. Now the other kids won’t have any
toys!” After she
spent a few moments reassuring us, Sam and I dug into the bag
with the energy
only a child can have at six a.m. on Christmas Day. Nearly
thirty years later,
my mom still won’t tell me how the toys in the sack found
their way under our
tree. But maybe I don’t really want to know, either. The
mystery let’s me
believe, if not in Santa, in the kindness of family, friends,
and possibly even
strangers.
*
* *
My kids may never
experience that kind of
holiday. They are growing up in a world without want. They
have both parents in
one house, and a mom who spends most of her waking hours
taking care of their
every need.
I
married into a Jewish
family, so in our home we celebrate Hanukkah, a holiday that
brings not one,
not two, but eight days of presents! Although a bunch of those
gifts are more
the practical type (socks and pajamas), it’s still a lot of
getting! To lessen
the load, my husband Ted and I decided to make the sixth night
of Hanukkah a
night for charity, where the kids give the money we would have
spent on a
present to someone in need.
Elana
is beginning to
understand. “So, instead of a toy, I’m giving money to someone
without a lot of
princesses?” She thinks it’s nice, in theory, and likes the
smiles and
gratitude she receives when she donates. On the other hand,
she also
enthusiastically awaits the seventh night. “Tonight we get a
present, right?”
Last
December, after eight
nights of Hanukkah, Elana and Maisy felt pretty confident that
they would get
to open a present every day for the rest of their lives. Each
morning when I’d
drop Elana at preschool, she’d ask hopefully, “Do I get a
present today?”
I
was feeling a bit
dismayed, especially since Christmas with my family was
rapidly approaching and
more gifts were coming. However, one day about a week later, I
saw Elana
counting the change in her piggy bank. When I asked her what
she was saving her
money for, she replied, “When it gets really full, I’m going
to give it to the
poor people who don’t have food, or clothes, or toys, or a
house, or fancy dresses.”
I
was about to cry.
That
is, until she whacked
Maisy for trying to swipe a nickel and I had
to send her to her room
for a timeout.
Rhiana
Maidenberg is a freelance parenting writer, escaping her two
young daughters
by writing in her favorite Noe Valley coffee shop, Bernie’s.
In her blog, Married with
Toddlers, Rhiana
explores the
challenges of raising kids and husbands in the current
super-mommy, super-wife,
super-everything environment. She is now a regular contributor
to the Huffington Post Parents section.
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