Found Gifts
Like many traditions, this one did not start out
as a tradition. It started out as a kick in the butt for a certain stepchild
who will remain nameless but who knows perfectly well who they are.
It was my first Christmas after being a
stepmother for a full year. Like many roles, this one did not come with
instructions. It did, however, come with expectations. I had sure expectations
about what it meant to live in what was now my and my new husband’s house:
Where things were supposed to be kept and returned promptly after use, when
chores were to be done, how they were to be done, and why they were to be done
in the first place. And who was to do chores, that is, everyone who lived under
our roof.
Doubtless each of my stepchildren had
expectations about what life was supposed to be like “under the new regime,” as
my husband, their father, so diplomatically put it. To his credit he did not
try to “arrange” the relationships between me and my stepchildren, nor did he
attempt to “fix” things when they seemed to be at an impasse. He would listen
to me rant, and I knew he listened to his kids because he would tell me—when I
was in a frame of mind calm enough to hear—their side of the story, such as,
“Why is her stuff her stuff, but our stuff is her stuff too?”
As it happened, I was moving into my stepchildren’s
lives just as each of them was in the process of leaving the nest. The eldest
was newly married and setting up house. The youngest was finishing high school
and set on going to college. That left the middle one who had their own
apartment by now but was apparently settled on doing little of value with their
time or talents. Menial jobs came and went, entire nights were wasted playing
video games, and whole days were spent sleeping life away.
Thus when Christmas rolled around that year, instead
of shelling out hard-earned money on new gifts, we gave my middle stepchild a
special incentive to clean up their act: A vacum cleaner. Our old vacum cleaner.
We emptied it and washed the attachments, wrapped it up in (used) gift paper,
and stuffed a set of bags in their Christmas stocking. It wasn’t exactly
coals-and-ashes but better—because it could suck up coals and ashes and dirt
and dust and whatever else accumulated in a young person’s natural habitat. And
to be fair, we also gave the other two kids recycled gifts: our microwave oven
went to the college student, and Christmas tree ornaments were handed down to
the newly-wed.
Hitting bottom broke the ice. What was intended
as a one-time kick-in-the-rear developed into a family tradition of giving each
other “found gifts”—that something extraordinary which may have been donated to a
second-hand shop or consignment store (a fish carved out of a cattle horn), or
given to a church jumble sale or school raffle (an old magazine published in
the month of one’s birth), or left on the street (a beer glass in Reykjavik,
Iceland), or even thrown away in the garbage (a suitcase full of costume
jewelry). Way more preferable to expensive or last-minute gift-shopping,
gift-finding has become an enjoyable year-round mission. It’s allowed me to let
go of sure expectations, for which I earned the term of endearment
“Step-monster,” and treasure the unique and interesting relationship I am
blessed to have with each of my stepchildren. Found gifts also fulfill the
adage, “It’s the thought that counts.”
Or rather, it’s the story that counts: “Lindsay,
This is a special gift for you, one that I found in . . . .”
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