When I was a child — and believed in Santa Claus with every fiber of my being — I’d wake up as early as 5 AM. on Christmas Day. It was always exciting to be “alone” in the dark house, tiptoeing down the stairs to peek at the Christmas tree before anyone else did. The sheen of the wrapping paper glistening under the twinkling lights of the tree made the whole room dazzle.
I’ll never forget that one year, Santa brought my brother a red folding chair with Lightning McQueen’s face on it. The sight of it shocked me: how on earth had The Man with The Bag done it? In fact, I seem to mostly recall the gifts Santa Claus left for my brother rather than for me. Admittedly, I was a kid who wasn’t that interested in toys. My Christmas list usually included books, science-y things, or stuffed animals.
One year, I remember Santa left something called an Eye Clops under the tree. It was a handheld magnifying device that could magnify anything up to 200x normal size — the TV screen would reveal the picture of what you were magnifying. I spent the next few days encapsulated with magnifying the everyday items in my house: the TV showing the delicate, woven fibers of blankets; the hidden grime in our carpets; the multicolored pebbles of glass that made up a pile of sand.
Another time, Santa left me a bug catcher. It’s hard to fathom, now, that there was a time when I was fearless with bugs. But I was — and I’d pick them up with my bare hands and gently place them in the mesh-lined bug catcher. I liked studying them and talking to them as if they were small dogs who could understand commands. I’d feed them leaves or dandelions or raw sugar. I’d draw them in a sketchpad and take “notes” on their behaviors.
I know it is looked down upon to gift people pets, but the best gift I once received didn’t come from Santa at all. It was a Christmas gift from my grandmother: a teddy-bear hamster. I walked into her house one Christmas morning to the sight of a rainbow, multi-layer cage that housed an affectionate, sleepy, fluffy hamster who I immediately named Skippy (like the US brand peanut butter).
Unbeknownst to everyone, Skippy would kickstart my forever adoration of hamsters. I’ve had several teddy bear hamsters in my life. They make great apartment-sized pets — and excellent companions for someone like myself who is tragically allergic to cats and dogs.
You may not have struck me as a science kid or a rodent girl, but I guess I’m both of those things. Yet those kinds of gifts didn’t continue into my adolescent years — which I imagined to have been somewhat painful for my parents to watch. In my grumpier middle school years, I remember asking Santa for iTunes gift cards and the Too Faced Natural Eyes Palette. In high school, totally clueless what to ask jolly old Saint Nick to kindly bring, I requested fleece-lined leggings to wear in the cold on my long, winter runs.
All of these things feel so dated, now. Not just literally (R.I.P. iTunes) but also to my selfhood. I know that I was once a girl who played with bugs and owned an iPod and ran races. But those versions of me are so far removed from the current version of me that I feel as though I’m talking about different people.
I guess measuring your life by the sum of your Christmas gifts, however, would reveal that change is inevitable. I know this because I did not jump out of bed at 5 A.M this morning. to tiptoe toward the tree. Instead, I grumbled when Aleksa shook me at 7:30 A.M. to wake up. “Come on, Kiki,” he whispered, grabbing my shoulder. “Kas, wake up. Your family is looking to open gifts.
I’m pretty sure we are the only family with full-grown, adult kids opening gifts before 8 A.M. My other friends think it is insane that we open gifts so early. All of them wake up at generous 10 or 11 AMs to the smell of bacon: the promise of a large breakfast first and gifts later.
“I don’t wanna get up,” I said, but I was already throwing on Aleksa’s hoodie and feeling my way in the dark for my glasses. Ten minutes later, we found ourselves knee deep in torn wrapping paper and the smell of fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen.
I got my dad a bird feeder which was unexpectedly a hit. He has not stopped talking about the bird feeder since he unwrapped it this morning. He sent photos of it to his friends, his dad, and his boss. Can you believe that this tough Brooklyn guy is into birds?
We’re bringing some nice loot back to the city: wine glasses, candles, nutcrackers. But what I really wanted this year was for my wedding dress to be cleaned and boxed. The beautiful, white gown we bought from Kleinfeld back in 2021 has been sitting in my parent’s spare closet in a dust bag.
I know that most people never end up passing on their wedding gowns to their children — that perhaps the act of getting your wedding dress boxed is as dated and antiquated as it gets. But the thought of my gown yellowing alone in a flimsy garment bag made me feel guilty. I didn’t want the dress to think I’d forgotten it; I wanted it to feel elegant and dignified in a beautiful box if it’s meant to rest for several years, dormant, in some dark corner of my home.
So that was my big and best gift. The gift of preserving a memory — which I’d like to think this blogmas thing has done a fraction of, too.
The rest of our day was mostly eating or sleeping: Christmas day, in my family, has always been a calm day. We tire ourselves out on Christmas Eve and take the next day to recover. There’s no more holiday plaids to be worn or peppermint martinis to drink, which is just fine with me. I’m looking forward to eating real vegetables tomorrow after munching on cookies for what seems like every meal these last 48 hours.
Not only is this farewell to Christmas and Connecticut, but this also concludes our Twelve Days of Blogmas! Honestly, I don’t know what’s more unreal to me: the fact that I’ve done a blog a day for twelve days straight or the fact that it’s already over!
I plan on taking some time to rest, but I’ll be back before you know it. New Years and Serbian Christmas are just around the corner, anyhow, and you know I already have plenty to say on both accounts.
Always yours,
That American Girl
That American Girl 
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