The Perfect Christmas Gift

My parents didn't get me what I wanted. Instead, they gave me something even better

Michael K. Meyerhoff, Ed.D.

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After you've searched 42 stores in 12 different malls, stood in line for hours, and shelled out a huge bundle of hard-earned cash to buy your kid that extra-special Christmas present, some parent-education professional like me comes along and says you spent too much time and money, missed the true spirit of the season, and encouraged your child to develop a seriously flawed value system.

You've heard all that before; you don't need to hear it again.

Let's face it. No effort or expense is excessive if it brings happiness to your child. You know it, and nothing I can say is going to stop you. So I won't unleash yet another tirade against rampant materialism or sermonize about the real meaning of Christmas. If you're willing to do whatever it takes to bring a smile to your child's face, go ahead and search the stores. Stand in line. Shell out big bucks. You should be congratulated, not condemned.

But before you go, let me tell you a story. It's the story of my middle-class parents spending an enormous amount of time and money in order to give me the best Christmas gift I ever received.

I was 12 years old, and my life revolved around baseball. Since my idol was Yogi Berra of the New York Yankees, I was determined to be a catcher. Unfortunately, I was left-handed, and baseball wisdom dictated that southpaws not be positioned behind the plate. (Because most players bat right-handed, a left-handed catcher might have a slightly obstructed view when throwing to second or third base to nab a potential base-stealer.) In fact, there was no such thing as a left-handed catcher's mitt.

However, the coaches were impressed with my powerful and accurate arm, and besides, no one else wanted to play that dirty and dangerous position. So equipped with improvised extra padding in my regular glove, I took the field and squatted behind the batter's box. I was so proud of my new position, I could almost ignore the sharp pain I felt every time a pitcher's fastball plopped into my palm.

There was only one problem. My shoes. Everyone else on the team wore cleats just like the pros. I had to wear sneakers. A pair of cleats cost more than 20 dollarsa princely sum in those days. Neither I nor any of my teammates could afford to purchase a pair on our own, even if we supplemented our allowances with the profits from our paper routes. But after ardent begging, pleading and promising to clean out the garage, every boy on my team had convinced his parents to buy him the special shoes.

Except me.

It wasn't like my mom and dad didn't have the 20 dollars to spare. They spent that amount every week for my violin lessonswhich I hated. For cryin' out loud, they had spent ten times that much all at once to buy the stupid violin. But 20 dollars for a pair of shoes that I probably would grow out of in less than six months just to play a game? Not a chance. As far as they were concerned, large sums of money were for food, clothing, shelter, education, and cultural enrichmentnot for dressing up a boyhood pastime. My five-dollar sneakers would just have to do.

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Originally published in: Christian Parenting Today, Page 22

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