It was one of those modest Christmases when the kids’ wish lists seemed more like dreams than reality. We were juggling bills and making sacrifices just to ensure we could celebrate the season at all. Yet, on that Christmas morning, my children were filled with joy. Their stockings overflowed with dollar store trinkets, discount candy, secondhand books, and clearance stickers. They were happily engaged with their budget-friendly toys, like knockoff Nerf guns and inexpensive plastic cars, reveling in the magic of the day.
As noon approached, they darted over to our neighbors’ house, eager to share their Christmas experiences. Soon enough, my youngest son, Oliver, who was just six at the time, returned with a clouded expression. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, but his eyes held a sadness that immediately told me something was amiss.
“Santa brought the neighbors a Nintendo Switch,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. That particular console had topped their own wish lists, but it was far beyond our means. “Mom, why did Santa only give us sticker books and things? We asked for a Switch too. Is it because we misbehaved?”
My heart sank. I wanted to reassure him that he and his siblings had been nothing but good, but the lump in my throat made it difficult to speak. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and let the floodgates open. I imagined racing to the nearest toy store, breaking a window, and grabbing that console, consequences be damned. My kids had never complained about what they didn’t have; they understood our financial limitations. They deserved that Switch, and yet, here we were, unable to deliver. It felt unjust, and I could see that Oliver felt the same way, unable to comprehend why Santa had chosen to fulfill their friends’ wishes but not theirs.
What could I possibly say? My mind raced with options. I could reveal the truth about Santa’s identity, explaining that their gifts didn’t reflect what they truly deserved, but that would shatter the magic of Christmas. I didn’t want to take Santa away from them; they were still young enough to believe in the wonder.
So, I held him close and kept my tone upbeat. I explained that Santa had many children to provide for and that sometimes, he simply didn’t have enough of the “big gifts” to go around. I reminded him that, like in life, sometimes luck was on our side, and sometimes it wasn’t, and that we should be grateful for what we had. Thankfully, he seemed to grasp my words.
“Next year, I’m sure you’ll be the lucky ones,” I whispered, my voice cracking as I mentally vowed to work extra hours and save every penny I could to give them the Christmas they dreamed of.
Fast forward a few years: my children are older now, and while a couple of them still believe in Santa, thankfully, we’re no longer in such dire financial straits. Nowadays, “Santa” can indeed afford to bring the flashy gifts their friends receive. However, he still sticks to simple, inexpensive surprises in their stockings, while any larger gifts come from Mom and Dad. The image of my son’s crestfallen face is etched in my mind forever. I never want to risk having another child feel that heartache, especially when they’re comparing Christmases at school.
Life teaches us many lessons about fairness, but Christmas shouldn’t be one of them, especially when it involves a figure of hope like Santa. Until my kids fully understand the truth about Santa, he will remain the giver of modest presents. Because it only took a single glimpse of Oliver’s disappointment for me to realize that I’ll never impose that on anyone else.
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In summary, the essence of Christmas for my family lies not in the extravagance of gifts but in the lessons of gratitude, love, and understanding.