Beech Tree News Network

When I was a kid, I knew what I could and could not ask for on Christmas.  Even when I still believed in Santa, I knew there were limitations to how much I could reasonably expect to find under the tree on Christmas morning.  There were seven kids in the family, which meant we could ask for one major gift and expect some small things to go along with it. 
    The first Christmas I spent with Dad and my stepmom after they gained custody of my three sisters and me, I received a bride doll; which was a bit ironic, now that I think about it, considering the messy divorce and subsequent custody battle that landed me in their house in the first place. Nonetheless, I was a pretty average little girl, and I adored that doll.  I remember other Christmases and other dolls.  Chatty Cathy, Chatty Baby, and plastic bathtub baby are a few that have stuck in my mind.
There are always stand-out Christmases, good or bad, in every child’s life.  One year, my two younger sisters and I got cowgirl hats, vests, skirts and cap guns—we were big fans of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans—and we played with them till they fell apart years later.  My top-of-the-list Christmas, however, was the year I got a guitar.  I was thirteen, and I don’t know how I even gathered the courage to ask for it, but there it was under the tree on Christmas morning, a Sears Silvertone guitar.  I’ve had many guitars since that one, but none I’ve appreciated more.  It’s still with me.  I get it out from time to time, just to remember, just to appreciate the sacrifice it must have meant for my Dad and stepmom.
I know my parents’ generation went through a lot to cover Christmas for their children, but I doubt that any generation stressed over Christmas as much as my own generation did with our children.  We were the first to feel the wallop of a well-oiled marketing machine.  Every Saturday morning cartoon and every animated movie had its own merchandise, and it was as closely managed and manipulated as the gas shortage of the seventies and the farm subsidies of today.
The most frustrating Christmas I ever spent was the one in which I looked the world over for a Lucky.  Lucky was one of six Disney Dalmatians, stuffed animals that were part of the merchandising plan that accompanied the movie, 101 Dalmatians, which was re-made when my daughter, Nikki, was a little girl.  Nikki was one of those kids who wanted complete sets of things, and she patiently collected the Dalmatians with birthday, Christmas and allowance money.
Before Nikki could acquire Lucky, Disney halted production on that particular dog because they said the manufacturer didn’t have the spots in the right sequence.  They continued to make the others, but that didn’t help Nikki.  If we had known that would happen, she could have bought Lucky first.  (In subsequent production of the lying, not standing, puppies, there was a Lucky, but he didn’t match the original standing Dalmatians, and Nikki has always been a stickler for detail.)
One of Nikki’s friends suggested she ask Santa for Lucky; surely he had some pull with Disney, after all.  Nikki was elated and that’s just what she did.  I can’t tell you how many stores I called, in how many states; how many catalogues I pored over; and how many friends I had on high alert in case any hint of a Lucky left a trail—this was pre-Google days—but a Lucky for Nikki was not to be found. I found a similar stuffed Dalmatian and made a collar for it, but Nikki knew a fake when she saw one.  She was so disappointed and hurt on Christmas morning.  It had been the top item on her Christmas list.
This year, my granddaughter, Sabria, asked her mom for pink dinosaur Stompies.  Stompies are kids house shoes made in various animal forms.  Unfortunately, pink dinosaurs are not one.  I immediately thought of Lucky and cringed.  My daughter didn’t.  She simply pulled up a list of Stompies, showed Sabria what was available, and had her pick an alternative.  She chose the pink unicorns.
  That was way too easy.  My daughter never even hesitated before pulling up the list.  I would have ordered the dinosaur Stompies and combed the stores for days until I found just the right shade of pink dye.  That’s the way you do it.  There’s no place for common sense during Christmas.  Any mother worth her salt knows that.