Common Ground: All I Want for Christmas

December 2007 | Life, the Universe and Everything

All I Want for Christmas

By E.B. Boyd

I used to love Christmas. Growing up, we had the Norman Rockwell thing down: Heaps of presents tumbling out from under a gigantic tree. Stockings so full they were too heavy to hang. A Christmas Eve feast followed by an endless Christmas Day brunch. Plus, as the only girl sandwiched between two boys, I always made out like a bandit in the presents department.

But about seven years ago, the holidays began to lose their luster. With the arrival of twin baby girls for one of my brothers, we three siblings — all San Francisco-based by now — stopped flying East for Christmas. Instead, my parents made the trek out here — leaving the orchestration of holiday hoopla to my generation. I didn’t mind the decorating and the cooking; they tapped my creative juices in satisfying ways. The real souring came with the annual hunt for the “perfect” gifts.

Before I was the one responsible for decking the halls, Christmas shopping hadn’t felt so trying. Spend a few hours at the mall. Find something suitable. Wrap. Place under tree and wait for perfunctory, “Oh, how lovely.” But in light of new time-consuming duties, gift-hunting was one task too many.

I began to dread the annual December shopping mall slog, the demoralizing search for items that might serve as appropriate tokens of familial esteem — and, inescapably, a litmus test of whether I’d actually paid attention to their interests and proclivities. Invariably, my efforts fell short. A decorative pillow for a sister-in-law. A “breakfast-in-bed” set, clearly too large to fit in my brother and sister-in-law’s tiny apartment. Each gift was met with the appropriate “How nice” and “Thank you!” but I am certain their lives would have been complete had these items never graced their doorsteps.

A few years ago, I hit on a solution. Instead of buying physical gifts, I’d make donations to charities on behalf of each family member. Problem solved: Find a charity that fit the interests of or was somehow relevant to each relative and make a small donation. Type up an official-looking proclamation of said honor. Roll. Tie with ribbon. Place under tree.

For a while my charity solution worked. I underwrote tree seedlings for my environmentalist mother. I found a nonprofit that preps underprivileged teenagers in pre-law for my lawyer father. An organization that teaches culinary skills to previously homeless women for my world-class-cook sister-in-law. A foundation that teaches parenting skills for my brother, who’s turned out to be a pretty good dad himself. My family, momentarily confused the first time they opened one of these gifts, soon caught on. They even started looking forward to what organization I would choose for them the following year.

As the years wore on, however, even this feel-good project became excessively time-consuming. Since part of the delight of the gift was to learn about a great charity you might never have encountered otherwise, I insisted on identifying new nonprofits each year. A donation to the local public library, while easy, was a no-no. Instead I’d scour the Web to find an organization like the World Library Partnership, which funds community-based libraries around the world. The last two holidays I gifted this way, I ended up staying up late on Christmas Eve, desperately seeking the final one or two worthy efforts.

Last year, I decided, no more. No matter how commendable the endeavor, it couldn’t make up for the fact that I’d begun to hate December — and Christmas. I momentarily considered boycotting the holiday altogether. Pack up, go somewhere by myself for a couple of days, and return after the torture was over.

Instead, I hit on a different idea. What if we could halt the craziness altogether? What if, instead of all seven adults in my family having to gift each other individually, we simply pulled names from a hat? Each person would only have to get a single present. Restrict each gift to a modest price limit, and Christmas shopping becomes even simpler. With trepidation that I’d be taken for a Grinch, I presented the idea to my family at the end of Thanksgiving. I needn’t have worried. Their heads were all bobbing before I’d finished my pitch.

I marched into December with an unexpected sense of liberation. I found myself laughing madly and shouting “Sucker!” every time an ad came on the radio promising to have identified just what I was looking for “for that special someone.” Watching panicky-eyed shoppers rush through stores filled my heart with pity and compassion.

The pile under the tree was much smaller last year, and unwrapping gifts hardly took any time. We spent the rest of the day going for a walk or taking the kids to the playground or simply snoozing off Christmas brunch. Later, one sister-in-law confessed how fabulous December had been, not having to hunt down a slew of presents. My parents and other siblings concurred. I realized I’d been misguided to have worried about being seen as a Scrooge. Sure, there were fewer presents under the tree. But the new approach had given my family the gift of peace for the month of December and a renewed enjoyment of the holidays — perhaps, the most perfect gifts of all.

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