There’s no “right” way to celebrate the holidays; do what makes you happy
Written by ANDREA GOTO
Illustration by RAY GOTO
“OH, I LOVE IT! IT’S SO SOFT!” my mom exclaimed on Christmas morning, nuzzling the basic velour scarf like it was a kitten.
My older sister and I, both elementary schoolers at the time, had picked it out while Christmas shopping at the mall with Dad. He fronted the money so we could give Mom “something she’d like.”
But that’s the thing — Mom liked everything. Or at least that’s how it seemed. She’d coo over a blow dryer, weep over fake-gold earrings and full-on ugly cry if I made her something with my inept and unartistic elementary school hands.
I’d watch her with curiosity as she opened presents, clutching my coveted plastic Snoopy Sno-cone Machine — the concession prize to not being allowed to have the coveted Easy Bake Oven because I’d “burn the house down.” I was dreaming of selling overpriced icy treats to my friends, and she was dreaming of dry hair? Why would anyone want a blow dryer?
Of course, I’d eventually grow up and discover the beauty of a blow dryer with five heat speeds and ionic technology. But even now, I’ve never been able to muster the appreciation and enthusiasm my mom could — for every. Single. Gift.
Perfume? “Exquisite!” as she misted her entire body. Floss in the Christmas stocking? “Exactly the kind I like!” Underwear? She’d regard it closely, clasp it to her chest, and look at me like I was the most thoughtful daughter and ask, “How did you know?”
I didn’t. I knew it was underwear, but that was about it.
My sister, a year older than myself, would absorb all of Mom’s ability to perform Christmas gift appreciation — times 10. She unwrapped every present slowly and deliberately, and, once revealed, she’d emit a gasp, then an ear-piercing squeal followed by a waltz around the room, lifting the gift to the gods, be it a pair of boots, a book or a half-used bottle of bubble bath. I learned to time it just right, placing my hands over my ears to protect my eardrums from being torpedoed by decibels unknown to most humans.
Mom and Dad would smile with pride and joy at the performance, congratulating their gift-giving skills, while I started to wonder — quietly sitting in the corner of the sofa surrounded by my Christmas haul — if something was seriously wrong with me.
“Don’t you like it?” they’d ask, visibly hurt. “Because it doesn’t seem like you do.”
I love most presents, and I appreciate them. I really do. But, oh, how I yearned to be able to love like that.
Then, I experienced my first Christmas with my husband’s family. At first, it felt more “Lord of the Flies” than “The Night Before Christmas.” One by one, we would open all of our presents as quickly as possible, starting with the youngest. Speed was the name of this game. And, as the youngest, I failed miserably. They groaned, badgering me to hurry up, and to stop trying to save the paper and bows. Eventually, everyone saw my turn as an opportunity for a bathroom break.
My sister-in-law was next in line, and she tore through her presents in about 8 seconds. I was horrified. “Cool.” “Nice.” “I like it,” she’d deadpan, but somehow also seemed to mean it.
When it came to my father-in-law, he unwrapped a golf shirt from my mother-in-law, inspected it for a brief moment, and then declared, “I hope you saved the receipt.”
I held my breath. Time stopped. I looked around the room, expecting someone to burst into tears or set the Christmas tree on fire. Instead, they all laughed.
“Yeah, I did. I’ll take it back,” my mother-in-law said. Without aggression. Without disappointment. Without drama.
What was this alternate universe I had stepped in? And why did it feel so … right to me?
I started thinking about all the Christmas dinners where Mom would elegantly decorate the dining room table we used twice a year, bring out the “fancy plates” and sterling silverware and spend two days preparing a turkey and all the fixings for us and my grandparents. It was a lovely tradition, right up until we sat down for dinner. The conversation was forced and formal. Eventually, I’d somehow manage to hurt my sister’s feelings — was it a sideways glance? — and she’d cry. Grandma, who refused to speak to my dad but would still insist on coming every year, would make a comment about the homemade gravy being too thick, thin or lumpy, and everybody went to bed with a slightly sagging Christmas spirit.
I had a lovely childhood, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything, but there, at my in-laws’ home, the lack of anything special — not the plates, silverware or food — somehow felt special. We ate when the food was ready, not when the clock told us to, and we got up from the table when we were done, not when we were told to. The conversations were loud and lively as everyone poked fun at each other. We laughed. A lot.
I eventually gave myself permission to do Christmas my way. I like the fancy plates and traditional recipes, but it has to be served up with hysterical laughter and store-bought gravy. And as for the presents, we always save the receipts.
