Confessions of a Christmas Grinch

OK. Go ahead and laugh if you want. But Christmas is making me feel good this year. And it’s been a long, long time since I enjoyed Christmas.

I admit it. I’ve been an official grinch since my high school days. Perhaps even earlier. I’m not sure why, although I do know some of the factors that played into my dislike of the holiday season.

My mother loved Christmas, even though she worked herself to a frazzle every year to provide the kind of Christmas she wanted to. The entire house was decorated, right down to the kids’ bedrooms (we all had our own little Christmas tree in our bedrooms, along with lights in our windows). She baked dozens of cookies: pinwheels and sand tarts and spritz and melt-in-mouths and Chinese almond and chocolate nut. She insisted on a live tree for many years, and it had to be decorated “just so”. As often as not, no matter how carefully we kids attempted to follow her instructions, she’d end up rearranging the decorations on the tree as soon as we went to bed. Christmas candles, Christmas knick-knacks, Christmas serving ware, Christmas card display … our home was a showcase for Christmas saturation.

My parents were very generous at Christmas time. They were in many ways the stereotypical children of the depression. Christmas was a time for largesse for them, a chance to experience the Christmases they dreamed of but never had when they were young. It was an annual pre-Christmas ritual for my parents to hand us the Sear-Roebuck Christmas wish-list catalogue and tell us to circle the things we liked in it. As often as not, nearly everything I circled was under the tree come Christmas day. Our Christmas stockings were hand-knit for size, and contained dozens of other presents. There was a picture of me taken when I was about five or so, surrounded by my Christmas presents. The pile of presents was taller than I was. As a typical five-year-old would, I rejoiced in my good fortune. It never occurred to me that I was being greedy. I asked, and Santa/parents delivered. Therefore, it was my due. I really liked Christmas back then. Who could blame me?

Slowly, however, a different awareness crept into my little pea-brain. I started elementary school, made friends, and began to realize that not everyone celebrated Christmas the way my family did. After Christmas, when we all returned to school, the inevitable question came up: “What did you get for Christmas?” My friends would say “A bike.” Or they’d say “Some books, and a stuffed animal.” Or maybe “A game, skates, and some clothes.” My response would be along the lines “A bike and some books and a stuffed animal and a couple of games and a pair of skates and lots of clothes.” It only took a couple of Christmases for me to realize that this was not the most intelligent answer an elementary school kid could make if she wanted to retain many friends. I learned that your friends did not necessarily want to hear about all your good fortunes. It wasn’t as if I intended to rub their noses in it, but then sometimes intent has nothing to do with results.

I became embarrassed by the quantity of commerce that our own small family generated at Christmastime. It became my habit to put away all my Christmas goodies by the end of Christmas day, so if any of my friends came over they wouldn’t see all that stuff under my section of the tree. My mother used to despair, because she liked the sight of the presents under the tree (even if they had already been opened). She decided that I was just a neat child, though, and refused to fault me for cleaning up promptly.

This continued through my high school years, when I tended to hang with the “brains” at school. Most of the “brains” were not from affluent families, and did not come close to experiencing Christmas the way I did. By that age, I’d successfully learned to cover my tracks at Christmas, but I felt guilty, sure that I was getting more than my due. By the end of high school, I’d come to dread the holiday season.

When I became engaged to a man who came from a Jewish family, though, it became impossible to hide the Christmas gift-orgy at my parents from him. My fiancé, to his credit, pretty much took the whole thing in stride, even when we had to make two trips home our first married Christmas because all the gifts didn’t fit into our car for one trip.

My two sisters both love Christmas and approach it with the same unbridled enthusiasm my mother once approached it with. Decorating is extensive, cookie baking is a three-week affair, and gift giving is an exercise in quantity and quality. It would appear that my own long-standing unhappiness with the holiday system is something idiosyncratic with me. Maybe I simply missed inheriting the Christmas gene. I don’t know. All I know is that this new-found enthusiasm for Christmas decorations and carols and even office gift exchanges is a total novelty to me.

I think part of the reason for my new warmer, fuzzier feelings toward the holiday season perhaps has something to do with The Socialist. The Socialist is still a little kid at heart when it comes to Christmas. He especially loves Christmas decorating. He loves to give presents. Watching him open a present is like watching the kitten play with a fuzzy mouse; both get that look of pure, unadulterated enjoyment on their faces.

This year in particular, the pressure is off. I’m not traveling. I don’t have to figure out how to divide my time among several households. I don’t have dozens of presents to buy. I have my cats, my comfy apartment, my fiber optic tree and my new sound system. I have friends and e-friends that I’ve come to love dearly and could not imagine living my life without. I have a man who loves me. Christmas doesn’t feel like a competition this year. It feels like coming home.

Have I mentioned recently how lucky I am?