For weeks, my wife and my mother kept asking what I wanted for Christmas. They kept asking because I wasn’t giving them much in the way of answers.
Even my son, who is not quite three years old, knows what he wants for Christmas: a “spinning bulldozer with tracks.” Now, there’s a toy that sounds like it deserves a line in “Up On the House Top.” (Here is a hammer/and lots of tacks…)
Me? I finally came up with a couple of small items, and a request that my dad help me fix a screen door at my house — or, more accurately since he’s the handier of us, that he let me “help” him do it.
Kind of pitiful.
But then, the comparison between my list and my son’s carol-worthy wish is kind of the point. I think I enjoy Christmas even more now than as a kid: the rest, the family time, the rituals and traditions — everything except the part about the presents.
Rather than the nervous hope I felt for certain gifts as a child — that “I have to have this toy or that one” feeling — more and more I