I don’t remember asking for a “gotta have” Christmas toy – a new Barbie, an Easy-Bake oven, a new bike. But I will always remember receiving, what has become, the best Christmas present ever.
My mother, then recently divorced with two young children, was struggling to pay bills. However, a couple of days before Christmas, an unusually large number of beautifully wrapped boxes appeared under our tree. My brother and I played for hours, moving, stacking, sorting boxes, guessing what could be inside.
On Christmas Eve, we set out our stockings – large, hand sewn and appliquéd with rhinestones and felt. I was embarrassed because they were homemade. Every year they were filled with practical items – toothbrushes, lotion, hair clips, underwear, along with a few pieces of candy and an orange at the bottom.
Christmas Day, my younger brother and I woke our mother at dawn and emptied our stockings onto her bed. After quickly offering thanks to Santa for the underwear, we dashed to the living room, grabbed a box, and sent bows and wrapping paper flying.
Inside were rocks.
No presents. Just rocks.
Rocks that looked like the gravel in our driveway.
Was this the South’s version of coal? My brother and I knew we hadn’t been on our best behavior all year long, but did we really deserve rocks?
My mother said she wanted our house to look festive, to have pretty packages under the tree. Having no money for presents, she wanted a way to “display” her love and hoped the ribbons and bows and wrapping paper would make us smile and feel the spirit of the holidays.
We cared nothing for a “display” – what mattered were the toys inside (or the lack thereof.) We angrily pushed aside the rest of the “presents” and cried because we thought we weren’t getting what we deserved. My mother cried because she felt like a failure.
My mother never again placed wrapped boxes as decorations (empty or with rocks) under the tree. Although my relationship with my mother was difficult through high school and college, it improved with the birth of my first child. I had a better (though not full) understanding of stress, sleep deprivation, unrealistic expectations, and unconditional love.
Years later and diagnosed with dementia, my mother now lives in an assisted living facility, needing her medications managed and a trained hand to accomplish daily tasks.
Dementia patients suffer the loss of memories and independence. Sometimes they don’t know what they’re missing, but family members do. We see the light of memories flicker on and off, we feel the pain of losing our shared history and the opportunity to have conversations that should have started years ago. Now that I care about my mother’s memories, I can’t get them.
I never truly thanked her for those “presents.”
To compensate, I wrote a freelance assignment on “My Best Christmas Present Ever” thinking it would at least give me the opportunity to appreciate the memory and write sort of a “thank-you note” my mother would never receive. At most, my children could read it and gain a better understanding of their grandmother. And me.
My own children were lucky to receive their own handmade stockings before my mother’s eyes and hands failed her. Amazingly enough, Santa’s elves still pack them with toothpaste, hair clips and underwear.
Older and a somewhat wiser, I can better appreciate the true meaning of Christmas, parenting and being a good daughter. I now realize now my mother gave us exactly what we needed and deserved. Love.
I can no longer thank my mother for the “presents” she gave us that special Christmas Day. Instead, I lovingly wrap a box of rocks for my own children, and prominently place it under our tree. Then they too will receive the “Best Christmas Present Ever.”