We are currently enjoying sanctuary from the holiday shopping season — that post-child-rearing, pre-grandkids space where you can check everyone off your list in one visit to the gift card rack at the supermarket.
Baby Girl and The Boy are both in their 20s and on their own, old enough and far enough away that I am no longer as plugged in to their tastes or clothing sizes as I was when we lived under one roof. So Santa cheerily stuffs their stockings with novelties, sweets, sundries and lots of gift cards, making everyone merry and bright. (He also leaves underwear beneath the tree because who doesn’t need underwear?)
Free of the pressures of finding the perfect gifts, we venture to the mall only to “ooh” and “aah” at the festive decorations and can spend more time basking in the warm glow of family traditions, like setting up Tutu’s Christmas village, touring the neighborhood light displays and baking sugar cookies while watching “Elf” and sipping heavily spiked eggnog.
For all of their young lives I was guilty of holiday excess — a reaction to my own overstuffed childhood Christmases, which were my parents’ reaction to their meager upbringings and later success. The annual December extravaganza left me exhausted and in debt. I vowed every Dec. 26 not to repeat the debacle, only to find myself in the same predicament a year later.
If only I’d heeded the message of a forgotten letter to Santa my son wrote in the second grade, recently uncovered while going through some old storage boxes:
“Dear Santa, I know you are very busy but I hope you are not cold. I have some special people that I love in my family. Can I please ask for some gifts for them? It won’t cost any money but it will make my family happy.”
Grab a Kleenex.
“My mom is a very hard working mom. Dear Santa, she always works. Can you make her have a relax day at the beach?”
He goes on to ask the man in red to let his dad catch “a really really big fish” and for his sister to ace her spelling tests. As for the little guy himself?
“Dear cool Santa, please don’t forget me, help me be better.”
Reading the letter these many years later, I was moved to tears that even as a little boy he could recognize how hard his mommy was working for her family.
But I felt other emotions, too, and a little regret. The scrawled note was a heart-tugging reminder that Christmas and birthdays shouldn’t be the only occasions when we bestow gifts upon our children.
We have a chance to do that every day of the year, if we would just slow down a bit and give ourselves more relax days. And like the kid said, it doesn’t have to cost more than a trip to the beach.
“She Speaks” is a weekly column by the women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Christie Wilson at cwilson@staradvertiser.com.
