It’s never been about gifts, but about giving
When you first have kids, if you want and are lucky enough to have kids, Christmas regains whatever magic it lost when childhood fell away. You realize that everything you remember about the holiday has a power, a joy, and you want your kids to experience that. At least I did. You want them to be happy.
So given that we are all lurching through late-stage capitalism, this means presents, right? There’s more, of course. I wrote this a few years ago: When our twins were 2 and able to grasp the holiday, I carried them upstairs on Christmas Eve and they looked at the roof and I asked, “What are you looking at?” And they said, “We’re listening for reindeer hooves.” That’s the world we tried to create.
But you will want them to remember the glorious morning, and that means it gets really easy to go too far. You stuff the stocking with clever little toys, wonderful trinkets, maybe a mandarin orange in the toe, the way my mother used to.
And then, the big show. The introductory gift. A bigger gift, maybe two, things you know they’ll love. And one big-ticket item, of course: a dollhouse, a bike, whatever it is. Plus family gifts. It piles up. We didn’t want our children to be spoiled because nobody who thinks does. But it can happen, suddenly, the way you can accidentally get drunk at your own wedding: Your friends want you to be happy, and so they will give you gifts of glasses of wine to help make it so.
(One complicating factor was that my wife’s wonderful sister had a boy and a girl 10 years before we had kids and, meticulous school teacher that she is, she kept their toys and all the little galaxies of pieces and parts in clear plastic storage tubs once the kids outgrew them. So we would get periodic shipments of toys from Michigan. We wouldn’t have bought the Nerf guns that shoot suction cups, but boy, those suckers really stick to the wall. Thank you for everything, Louise.)
And what happens is, your kids learn to devour the magic. They tear through their stockings and get into the toys and can quickly become Martin Sheen as the president on The West Wing: What’s next?
Slowly, we gained perspective. We started thinking about experiences — guys, we got you a family trip to the water park! — rather than stuff. There was enough plastic in the house, enough fields of mismatched toys that look like little tornadoes scattered them. Modern life can be chaotic and claustrophobic enough without every room feeling like a foot-mangling obstacle course.
They still have plenty of things to play with, and we try to rotate stuff in and out of view, with the rest in clear plastic tubs in the storage space. They’re lucky, our kids. We tell them all the time.
But in storytelling you have to show, rather than just tell. My superb colleague Ed Keenan wrote about this a couple years back, but I think it bears repeating. Our big three kids — 7, 7 and 5 years old — are Beaver Scouts, and every year the scouts are one of the many wonderful organizations that play a huge part in helping the Star’s Santa Claus Fund deliver the thousands of boxes of toys to children in need around the GTA. I was working that night, so my wife took the four kids out to deliver their share.
They were one small piece of a much bigger thing in the life of this city. The Santa Claus Fund was started in 1906 by Star publisher Joseph Atkinson, who grew up poor and relied on the kindness of others. This year, 45,000 boxes have been delivered in the GTA. Thousands of volunteers helped prepare and deliver them. The fundraising goal was $1.7 million, and it was surpassed with $1,784,939 in donations.
“It is really heartwarming to see Star readers come through again this year to help children have a much happier and brighter Christmas,” said David Holland, president and CEO of Torstar Corp. “Thank you to the thousands of generous residents who opened their hearts to these children. Because you cared, children across the region will have more to smile about on Christmas Day, and it won’t just be the satisfaction of receiving a gift. It will also be the knowledge that many in the community felt for them, and took the time to make a donation, or helped deliver the boxes.”
My wife and kids delivered boxes door to door in Thorncliffe Park. My eldest son was a little shy, and saw his first cockroach; he had a nightmare about it later. His younger brother was enthusiastic, but more easily distracted; the 20-month-old toddler was just happy to see new places. And my eldest daughter was front and centre, smiling and bighearted, trying to make people happy. When we ask her what she wants to be when she grows up, she says, I don’t know, but something that helps people. She told me about the deliveries when she got home, bouncing on her toes.
There’s a poem by Maggie Smith called “Good Bones” that has circulated this year, for many reasons. It’s spare and lyrical and hard, and it ends with the lines “This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.”
Every bit of beauty helps. Merry Christmas.