I think it was the Christmas of ‘76 - my father, tired of hearing his children beg to open gifts early, walked to some unknown location in the house and returned with a black garbage bag filled with wrapped presents. With a resounding thud, he dropped the bag onto the floor. And for the next week, my brother and I lived in constant torment - ordered not to touch the bag, all we could do was sit and stare.
Needless to say, once Christmas morning rolled around, the garbage bag filled with gifts looked less like santa’s smooth bag of toys, and more like a meteor riddled with tiny finger-sized cavities. I don’t personally remember poking my finger into the bag. I can’t imagine I gained any real insight as to the gifts merely by tapping at the packages with my fingertip. But, I’m pretty certain I spent many a boring afternoon huddled next to the bag.
One Christmas, I snuck into my parent’s bedroom, slithered under their bed, and unwrapped my gifts. I carefully rewrapped the gifts, then lived in hellish anticipation for the next few days, only to have no genuine excitement when Christmas morning finally arrived. I single-handedly removed any morsel of surprise from Christmas that year.
I spent my early years doomed with inquisitiveness. I say doomed, as my nagging desire to discover and find things, often took what little surprise was offered out of, what could best be described as, a very mundane life. My inquisitiveness didn’t stop at Christmas - I’d find a way to get into anything. I had a love for refined sugar when I was young. As soon as my mother caught me, indulging in a piece of white bread with a mountain of sugar loaded on top - she hid the sugar. This did nothing to stop the affair. Instead, hiding the sugar only served to provide me with a treasure hunt. Eventually, I found the sugar jar hidden in the cupboard above the refrigerator. There really wasn’t a part of the house that was off limits or beyond my ability to mountain climb into. Scaling the refrigerator was no more difficult than shimmying up the tree that lived next to our house, which I shimmied up and down often.
It took me a few years to discover, and thus value, the excitement that can only be found in anticipation. Once I figured it out my pirating days were over. I wonder if my mother ever noticed how the tape that was affixed onto the packages was slightly askew; the wrapping paper print, no longer perfectly aligned. I was young, I can’t imagine I was overtly delicate while out on these holiday reconnaissance missions.
What I found most difficult about my Christmas misdeeds - was living with myself afterward. I felt terrible. I felt like a rotten kid. A toy addict that would do anything to get a fix. I was plagued with guilt. When my parent’s looked into my big, bright eyes on Christmas morning - whether they knew it or not - I wasn’t deserving of the gifts I was about to receive. I battled that demon and put it to rest well before I hit the ripe old age of eight. And I never returned to my loathsome ways again. I also don’t work hard to hide my children’s gifts. They know where I keep them stashed. “Get into them and it’ll ruin your Christmas...believe me,” I say flatly. There is wisdom in my words, and I’m pretty sure that truth is what keeps my daughter from following in her mother’s footsteps. But if she does - I’ll recognize the gloomy look in her eye come Christmas morning.
Sane
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