Roller skates

I was eight years old and Santa brought me roller skates. They were low-top, royal-blue suede with white faux-adidas stripes and red wheels. The big "brake"--that knob that sticks out the front--was blue as well, and if you drug it along the sidewalk it would leave a trail. My sister and I got matching skates and when the weather got warmer, we'd have contests to see who could drag brake and leave a longer blue streak down the street in front of our house.

Twenty seven years later, and that's the one gift that I remember; the one that resonates in my heart when I think about Christmas' past: the toy that stands out in my hazy memory. When I think of my older sister it's inevitable those damn roller skates sitting there under the tree will eventually make an appearance in my mind.

Don't get me wrong, I have a ton of fantastic Christmas memories...
-sitting at the "kids table" with all of my cousins, getting whacked in the back of the head with a serving spoon for screwing around during grace,
-the year my uncle got so drunk he passed out on the living room floor and my Grandpa told my five year old self to stick an ice cube down his (very festive) turtleneck sweater,
-eating so much of my Grandma's lefse I spent most of one Christmas eve throwing up while everyone else played games,
-ten hour road trips across the state, excitement building the closer we got to my grandparent's house,
-eating
-eating
-Did I mention eating? All of those fantastic meals made by the Norwegian Grandmother one year and the German Grandmother the next.

I know, I know...what's my point?

I have a six year old boy now. He's two short years from my "year of the roller skates." There are literally dozens of presents for him under the tree from all of the grandparents and aunts and uncles living nearby, but only two from his parents. His mom crocheted him a really cool dinosaur stocking cap and his dad got him a Swiss Army knife.

My hope...when he's a little closer to 40 than 30 (as I am now) he'll think back to all of his past holiday seasons and remember that awesome hat his mom took the time to make for him. He'll remember the year when 5 grandparents and 3 great grandparents all sat together and ate too much prime rib and mashed potatoes. He'll remember using empty gift wrap rolls to sword fight with his little sister. My hope is he remembers all of the love in his house at Christmas time, not all of the presents.

I wish all of my cigarsmoker brothers (and sister!) a very happy holiday season, filling their homes with love, their man-caves with cigar smoke, and their stomach's with good food and better booze (but not too much or an unwelcome ice cube might make an appearance).

Merry Christmas, douchenozzles!