I am the Grinch

Doug thinks I'm a Scrooge, but I'm just not going to give in to the crazed parental gift-giving that overtakes most Americans families. The kind of family that goes into debt at Christmas. The kind where the present pile spills out several yards beyond the diameter of the tree and threatens to sustain itself by feasting on small children.

Growing up, Val and I usually got one toy apiece, some socks, and some underwear. Often the socks and underwear were wrapped together in one box, so that really only counted as one present anyway. Not having grown up with crazed American Christmas, my mom (Hi Mom!) didn't get the point of wasting an extra box and an extra sheaf of paper just so we'd have another present to open under the tree. (We're actually still trying to convince her that wrapping presents in this fashion is just wrong.) My parents made it clear that they couldn't afford to buy us a pile of toys, and we knew that it was them and not Santa that had to pony up the dough.

It was the present-opening at my grandparents' house that we looked forward to. Every year after Thanksgiving dinner they asked us to make a list of the things we wanted, usually one big toy and a couple of outfits. I have such vivid memories of this—sitting on my grandma's mushy sofa, pouring over the Montgomery Ward or Sears Wish Books, and picking out what I wanted.

[I remember choosing Western Barbie one year. She had a jazzy white, silver, and black jumpsuit the likes of which no cowboy has ever worn. She also had a plastic white cowboy hat and one eyelid that could wink if you pushed the big button in her back. That's what cowgirls do, you know!? They wink and wear skintight body suits and all you need to do to make it really authentic is yell, "Yeeeeeeehaw!"]

So that was my Christmas: I got a few things I needed and a few toys, and I was pretty happy. More than anything I looked forward to making construction paper garlands with my sisters, which we draped over the French doors that opened into the sun room where our family's tree stood; setting out homemade seating cards and little white cups filled with dinner mints at each place setting at my grandma's drop leaf dinner table; and all the board games that we'd play with my extended family when the meal was done.

Next year Harrison will understand enough about Christmas that we can start to read Santa stories and have him make a wish list. I do want him to believe in Santa and in magic. The geek in me knows that there's not enough magic in the real world.

But it frustrates me that holiday magic has gotten completely co-opted by consumerism. Already, there's pressure from other parents, other mothers to buy buy buy. What does Harrison want for Christmas? And what are you getting Harrison for Christmas? When asked by people that I don't really know or who don't know Harrison, it feels competitive.

Harrison is 19 months old. He doesn't know what the hell Christmas is. He doesn't know what toys exist other than the ones that he already has. He doesn't watch much TV, so he doesn't see toy commercials or discuss the latest hot thing with his friends. In fact, he doesn't have any friends! He doesn't know who Santa is and he's still more interested in the gift wrap than the gift. He doesn't pay attention to characters or franchises or product placement or cross promotion.

I know the day is coming soon when he will enter a target demographic. He'll be aware that other kids are getting loads of plastic junk and that he's not getting the same amount of plastic junk. He might be a little upset about it. Still, I don't want to sacrifice the good things I can afford for my family by going into debt at Christmas. I don't want Harrison to have a sense of entitlement for that mountain of presents under the tree. I'm excited to create traditions for our family that are not about consumption.

Harrison's not going to get just socks and underwear, but I do refuse to be that woman wrestling other moms for the last Dancing Elmo on the shelf.