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"Don't expect much," I constantly reminded our three boys the year my husband, Bob, had been unemployed for six months. He'd resumed working in November but hadn't been employed long enough for us to get caught up on our bills. Not wanting to add to our debt, we decided to spend very little for Christmas.
We bought a marked-down Christmas tree with a crooked trunk for $10. While our sons—Jim, 13, Joel, 12, and Ben, 6—decorated it, they began talking about the gifts they'd open from us on Christmas morning. Hmm, I thought, I'd better nip this in the bud. I said, "Now, boys, don't expect much for Christmas this year."
When they saw TV commercials especially designed to make children "want," they dreamed aloud about what they would get. I interrupted their dreams with, "Remember, boys, don't expect much this Christmas."
When Ben's friend, Bruce, came over to play one day, they chatted about the toys they wanted for Christmas as they drove their toy trucks over the carpet. When Bruce left, I said, "Now, Ben, don't expect much for Christmas."
I said "don't expect much" so many times, I felt as if I were becoming a new Christmas character, one to rival Ebenezer Scrooge or the Grinch. I was the Christmas Damper, the dreaded woman who threw water on boys and girls when she heard them expressing their Christmas wishes. Her goal was to put out the fires of Christmas expectations.
A CHRISTMAS GLOOM settled over our house. Jim began spending a lot of time in his room with the door closed. Joel became listless. Saying he didn't have anything to do, he'd hover over me while I tried to work at my desk. Ben acted babyish, repeatedly asking if he could sit on my lap.
In November, if anyone had told me this would happen, I'd have said, "Not in my house." I'd been certain having little money to spend wouldn't affect the quality of our celebration because I always work at emphasizing the meaning of the holiday. This year, though, the advent candles no longer held an attractive glow. Our daily December devotions, an activity the boys always welcomed, no longer held their interest.
When our pastor preached a sermon blaming the loss of meaning on the hustle and bustle of Christmas, I said, "Bah! Humbug!" I hadn't bought one ribbon, one gift tag, or one piece of wrapping paper. We weren't caught up in the hustle and bustle of the holidays, but something was missing from our Christmas.
I was relieved when a real estate agent I sometimes worked for called. Carileen said, "I've decided to have an open house. I want to show my new home to all my customers. Would you bake the cookies, prepare the punch, and then serve them at my open house?"
I welcomed the job. Perhaps baking 30 dozen cookies and preparing punch would get my thoughts off our gloomy Christmas. It did while I shopped for the ingredients. But when I rolled the dough for the sugar cookies, I thoughtof my mother, 500 miles away. At that moment, she was probably also baking. During the holidays, people came and went at Mother's house, and she offered pie and coffee to each one. Warmth permeated her home. I began to wonder how my mother achieved that holiday warmth. How did she create an atmosphere in which people felt comfortable stopping by without being asked? Did it take years of living in a community? Did it happen only when relatives lived nearby? Our family had no relatives close by, and we hadn't lived in our community long. Thinking about the warmth in my mother's home made the Christmas gloom hang even heavier.
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