As kids, every year when Christmas would roll around we'd get really excited. My sister, brother and I would sharpen our pencils and make out our Christmas Lists for Santa. We'd have the Toys R Us Big Book of Toys and the JCPenny's catalog as reference materials and sales flyers with hastily circled items that had caught our fancies.
The three of us would work really hard on our letters. We wanted every word, every picture, every plea to Santa to be perfect. The more perfect the letter, the better chance we'd get everything on our list.
Once completed, we'd signed our names and our mother would "mail" them off to Santa Claus. The remaining days until Christmas were spent sitting by our freshly decorated tree, staring at our stockings and whispering about all the new, cool toys we were going to get, especially b/c as far as Mom knew, we had been angels this year.
When Christmas would come, we would devour the presents under the tree while our parents excitedly took pictures. In our minds we were mentally ticking off our lists and making sure we got everything we asked for.
Of course, we didn't get everything we'd hoped for and as we tore open our gifts from our Grandma C. we found ourselves frowning as we examined homemade gifts. Unhappily, we unwrapped handmade ornaments of yellow stars, or dolls that looked like Cabbage Patch dolls, but weren't. The quilts made with odd patches had been a disappointment.
We would quickly put those gifts aside, and feverishly look for better presents under the tree. We never noticed the looks our parents exchanged as Grandma C's gifts were tossed aside in favor of talking robots that had flashy lights and Barbie dolls that had pink shoes.
Looking back now, I realize what selfish, ungrateful brats we were for not favoring the gifts made with love and especially made just for us, but adoring the toys that required batteries and tended to break in less than a month.
Looking back now, we never thought those quilts, ornaments and dolls would still be in existence while the much desired toys at the time are long gone and forgotten.
Looking back, I wish I could have meant those thank you letters to my Grandmother, not just written them hastily before rushing back to play with my favorite toys.
Now I realize the error of youthful thinking and every night as I slip under the oddly colored patch quilt on my bed, I think of the love my Grandmother put into making this quilt. I also think about the homemade, handmade gifts I've made for my daughter and hope that she'll realize that gifts made with love are the most precious of them all.
This weeks blog blast is in part to Klutz books and the Parents Bloggers Network.
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