Christmas for Sophie: Rediscovering Holiday Magic

I bought red and black plaid patterned wrapping paper this year. It was cheap—the kind that will probably tear here and there when I’m trying to cut in a hurry. But I thought it was pretty. Simple. It was also affordable, which is important for a single mom, even when it comes to something like paper. I chose this pattern because it has a bit of a retro vibe. It reminds me of a particular Christmas ornament that was on my tree as a child. This was the first Christmas item I bought this year. As I was discussing my beautiful, cheap purchase with a friend, she asked me what my “big gift” was going to be for my daughter, Sophie. I stared at her without expression. I hadn’t thought about it. “I’m not going all out,” I told my friend. “The last thing Sophie needs is more junk.” But as my friend walked away, I felt embarrassed. Was I a bad mom? Some parents surprise their kids with game systems, laptops, tablets, or fancy doll houses. The truth is, I had no intention of getting Sophie anything that was expensive, elaborate, or even “big.” I wasn’t just being stingy. I was being practical. She already owns countless toys that she rarely plays with. I wasn’t going to get her more gadgets that she would put down after using once or twice, or toys she would forget about before the New Year, or electronics that I would limit her time with anyway. I don’t mean to say I’m not getting my daughter anything for the holidays, but Christmas, to me, has always meant something so much more than how big or extravagant the packages under the tree are. I've never really aimed for big, but more for meaningful.

I grew up in an old farmhouse with my mom, dad, and four siblings. After Thanksgiving, Dad would haul a large spruce tree into our living room and secure it in the same space every year—right next to the open staircase at the center of our home. We would decorate the tree as a family, with holiday tunes blasting in the background, and Mom’s homemade cookies in the oven. Hand crafted ornaments from five Ensminger kids were packed into boxes and bags inside the closet under the stairs. Every year we would pull them from their dusty nest, hang them on the branches, and ask the same questions and tell the same stories about where each ornament came from. Everything had a story.

Christmas Eve was the Ensminger gift exchange. We would sit in the living room by the light of the tree and give each other the presents we bought (or, in our much younger years, presents we made for each other). We would listen to Jingle Bells and laugh until our bellies hurt. At bedtime, my siblings and I would create the mother of all blanket forts in the upstairs bedroom, throw pillows and sleeping bags on the floor, and stay up for hours playing games, telling stories, and reciting parodies of our favorite holiday songs. The next morning, we would tiptoe down the stairs to snatch our stockings from their hooks on the banister. Then we would run back to the upstairs bedroom and empty our stocking contents onto the floor. There were always pieces of candy, batteries, toothbrushes, and other small surprises. It was still dark outside when a brave soul would scuffle downstairs to wake Mom and Dad. We would, of course, need to put the coffee on for Dad before we could begin opening presents. I remember pretending to still believe in Santa even a couple of years after understanding he wasn't real, because I didn't want to ruin the tradition. There was something exciting and beautiful about believing in magic, despite my age. What I remember about Christmas with my family was the thrill. It was that pit-of-the-stomach fluttering and the rush of something out of the

ordinary. I remember holiday music, and A Christmas Story playing on loop on the TV all day. I remember crumpled wrapping paper everywhere. I remember Dad's blue flannel shirt he always wore, and Mom's snowflake pajamas. I remember laughter. There was always plenty of that. I don't remember the jokes, or who was laughing, or why. I just remember constant laughter. I remember Mom's face when we opened a present and reacted with delight. But, what I don't remember, oddly enough, is the "stuff." I might remember a gift here or there, but most of the presents I opened throughout my childhood I can't even recall. Why? Because that isn't what was important to me. That isn't what I valued. Even if I thought it was significant at the time. My first Christmas with my daughter, Sophie, was also my last Christmas with my mom before she died. Mom couldn't stand from the couch to decorate her own tree. She couldn't sit up long enough to open presents. She couldn't formulate long sentences without getting confused or exhausted. So, we decorated for her, and we sat around her, and radiated as much positive energy as possible. My mom knew she was dying, but the rest of us were denying it. We still played music, and watched A Christmas Story, and reminisced about the good old days, and laughed until our bellies hurt, because that is what Christmas always was to us. Sophie and I left Mom's house a couple of days later, and we never saw her again. Last year, almost four years after my mom passed away, Sophie thumped down the stairs on Christmas morning with enthusiasm to see what Santa brought us. It was just the two of us, and Sophie sat quietly next to me on the couch as I sipped my coffee. It was eerily quiet in my living room, and because I hadn't put up a tree since that last Christmas with my mother, the gifts from Santa were stacked neatly by the window. The house was not decorated. There was no music playing. There was no laughter, no twinkling lights or the smell of cookies baking, and there wasn't any story-telling or song parodies. Other than the fact that there were gifts, it was like any other morning. Sophie quietly opened her presents, squealing over every single one. When she got through them all, although she was ecstatic to have new toys, she looked around as if she were hoping for more. I felt her disappointment. Something was missing.

Now, this red and black plaid wrapping paper sits on the living room floor of my apartment at the foot of our Christmas tree. I brought this tree home a few days after Thanksgiving. I blasted holiday tunes and let Sophie help me unpack decorations that had been in storage since before she was born. She helped me put the lights on the tree and hang ornaments. We wrote letters to Santa and read Christmas stories. We watched The Grinch and drank hot chocolate. But best of all, we laughed. All day.

“I like Christmas,” Sophie giggled at one point in the evening. I squeezed her into a hug. It wasn’t even Christmas day yet, and I could tell she was starting to feel some form of joy for the holiday.

Sophie will be back at my house soon, and I'll ask her to help me wrap these presents for our loved ones. It will be sloppy, and she’ll definitely rip this cheap, plaid paper. But I’m excited for her to help. I will teach her about giving as opposed to just getting presents for Christmas. I'll talk to her about helping families that don't have a lot during the holidays. On Christmas morning, I know I can't show Sophie the exact feeling my mom showed me. She doesn't have siblings, and she won't wake up with a houseful of family members on the 25th like I always did. But I can still make it special for us. It doesn't have to be quiet and boring like last year. There are still countless ways to show her the warmth of the season with new traditions. For me, Christmas isn't about “big gifts,” or what Santa brought. It's about that pit-of-the-stomach fluttering. It will be different for me compared to what I grew up with, and it may still be a bit painful without Mom around, but I've learned that where there is love, there is always holiday magic. I want to give that to Sophie.