Ghosts of Christmases Past

Growing up, I’m not sure that my family had rigid holiday traditions. One thing that was seemingly set in stone, though, was that we couldn't put up the Christmas decorations until after my sister Angie’s birthday on December 13th. I don’t know if that was because my parents dreaded getting out the decorations or that they just wanted to make sure that Angie’s birthday wasn’t overlooked in favor of Christmas. If I had to guess, I’d say it was because they dreaded getting out the decorations.

My poor sister Angie. She’d often get a birthday present and be told that “this is for your birthday AND for Christmas.” That must have sucked. But it probably didn't suck as much as the teasing she got at school. You know, the teasing she probably got for being the head cheerleader. And the Homecoming Queen. And the fantasy of every guy between the ages of fourteen and forty-five. The teasing must have been brutal.

I remember being in junior high and constantly being asked whether or not I thought my sister was hot. I’d always say “no” and then I’d hear all the reasons why my sister was hot. And then I’d get punched in the arm. On more than one occasion, I was asked for pictures of my sister. You know…pictures. I didn’t have any pictures. Looking back, I probably could have made some money, but I wasn’t that kind of kid. You know, the kind of kid who owns a camera.

Anyway, back to the subject. Our family’s Christmas activities varied. Sometimes, they'd include a holiday party at a relative’s house. It was always best when it was a relative who had alcohol or spiked punch available. But we were raised strictly and none of us drank. Not officially, anyway.

My parents would make Christmas goodies and give them to friends and neighbors. Our across the street neighbors, the Whites, would always send over cinnamon rolls. They were the best cinnamon rolls EVER. Thank you, Barbara. I miss your cinnamon rolls. (Yes, this is a ploy for cinnamon rolls. You know how to get a hold of me.) I miss the Whites. Sometimes I miss being a kid.

There were years that we didn’t go to any Christmas parties and we’d just stay home. One year my mom tried to get us to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life.” None of us watched it. I think that upset my mom a little bit. I only say that because in a calm, but frightening tone of voice, she said, “It’s okay if you don’t watch this movie with me, children. I don’t really care. But Santa cares. Santa cares a LOT. You’ve made him very, very angry. And now, he hates you. Santa. Hates. You.”

You’d think that would scare little children, and it would have scared us, but we were in our twenties by then. But now that I think about it, that whole scenario might have just been a dream. It’s not like my mom to tell us that Santa hates us. Totally out of character.

Sometimes on Christmas Eve, we’d sing carols. Or we might just hang out as a family, doing nothing in particular. But no matter what we did, it was as a family; we were always together. My mom, my dad, my sisters and me. We were a family and we were, for the most part, happy to be together. I’m sure my sisters and I may have argued or fought, but not too much. Santa was watching us. When Santa’s watching and Christmas is only days (or hours) away, you don’t want to screw up at the last minute and not get those awesome toys you asked for. He might give you underwear instead.

As Christmas approached, each of us children could be found at one time or another, alone, in a darkened living room, mesmerized by the lights on the Christmas tree, lost in our thoughts (or passed out drunk...who’s to say?). I remember sitting in front of the Christmas tree, alone, thinking about how I couldn't believe it was finally Christmas again, wishing it could be Christmas forever, and dreading the end of the season, knowing it would end too quickly. It always ended too quickly.

For a few years, my sisters and I would sleep in the same room on Christmas Eve, excited about what Santa might bring us. We’d try to stay awake and listen for him, but we never heard him. Santa was as stealthy as any cat burglar could ever hope to be. He would sneak in, deliver our presents, and maybe eat the cookies and milk we’d left out from him. And then he would leave, without a trace. I don’t know how he always managed to avoid the spring-loaded traps that we set out for him. He’s a wily one, that Santa.

In the mornings, we’d wait for Grandpa and Grandma to come over before we’d open our presents. I was five years old the year Grandpa died. Then it was only Grandma who’d come over. She was getting on in years, so my dad would pick her up. Time stops for no man, and it didn’t stop for Grandma, either. Eventually, Christmas mornings no longer included Grandma. The long arm of the law finally caught up to her.

            The other day, my boys and I put up our Christmas tree. They like turning the lights on and off. Charlie, who is two, likes taking off the low-hanging decorations and throwing them. While we were putting up the tree, I thought about the Christmases of my childhood and how my family was always together. I thought about my own children and the Christmases to come. Sometimes they’ll be with their mom. Sometimes they’ll be with me. No doubt, their Christmases will always be great.

But not the same.


Please "like" Single With Kids on Facebook and recommend this site to your Facebook friends. You know, if you want. No biggie. But it'd be really awesome if you did.