When I was a child, my favorite grandmother knitted stockings for each one of her grandchildren. Mine was mainly red. Soft, wispy, white fur (representing snow on a roof) had been stitched into the design of a row of green houses. A huge yellow moon became a backdrop for a Santa and his sleigh flying through the sky. As soon as Mom took out the Christmas boxes, I rummaged through the packages until I found my knitted sock, stuck my foot in it, pulled the garment all the way to the top of my thigh, and ran around the house, yelling, “Santa’s gonna have to get a lot of stuff to fill up my stocking!”
When I married, Grandma knitted one for John, and when we had children, she knitted one for each of my babies too. I finally understood what it was like to fill such grand socks and wondered how my parents had ever afforded this for four kids. John and I bought matchbox cars, stuffed animals, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Hello Kitty Stickers, small books, Cheese-it crackers, Chicken In A Biscuit, tangerines, apples, boxes of licorice, movie-sized boxes of candy, and candy canes–just to see our children’s faces fill with joy. And as they grew, Lindsey and Michael had loved their stockings in similar ways to the way I’d loved mine–wearing them on their feet and arms, hanging them in their rooms, and squealing when they dumped out the heaping contents on Christmas morn.
Now it was 2012. And our children were grown, married.
“You don’t treat me like an adult,” Lindsey said. My daughter (who has developmental delays) stood in our family room two holiday seasons ago, hands on hips, chastising me for something I can’t even remember right now. “I’m over thirty. You shouldn’t treat me like a child anymore.” Her timing was perfect. I handed Lindsey her red and white-striped, snowman Christmas stocking with her name knitted into the design. Lindsey’s blue eyes grew wide; she studied the candy cane-looking sock. “This isn’t what I’m talkin ’bout, Mom.” Lindsey frowned, holding onto the treasure with tremoring hands.
“You don’t get to pick and choose what parts of adulthood you want to do,” I said, remembering when our son married, we’d passed his knitted sock onto him too. “Besides, Dad and I don’t want you to miss out on the pleasure of filling your spouse’s stocking, and him filling yours.” I smiled wide, patted my daughter’s shoulder. “It’s one of the fun parts of being married.”
Lindsey’s face appeared skeptical, but she took the stocking to her new home. Our mantle seemed lonely now that it was down to two stockings. I walked over to the fireplace, touched my grandmother’s handiwork, and rationalized–downsizing is a natural part of life. We’ll get used to this. Eventually.
Fast forward to this year.
“Go ahead and bring your stocking back to our house,” I’d told Lindsey after Thanksgiving. “We’ll fill it this year.” Since Lindsey and Nick decided to end their marriage, I knew her stocking would no longer be stuffed with anything special.
“I gave it back to you,” Lindsey said. “My stocking never got filled. So I gave it back.”
Her stocking never got filled? My heart sank. I peered around our family room at all the unpacked holiday decorations. Our stockings were already hung, and I always kept all Grammy’s work in the same rubber banded shoebox (wrapped in two plastic bags of protection so mice would never be tempted to nibble on the wool) and Lindsey’s stocking definitely wasn’t there.
“No. I don’t think you gave it back,” I said, my voice trailed away, wondering where in the world I would’ve put it if she had.
“Well. I’m all packed and ready to move and I don’t ‘member seeing it.” Lindsey voice sounded adamant.
“Could you look again? Please? Since Grammy made it? I don’t want you to lose it.”
Our conversation went back and forth for several minutes, Lindsey saying I had it. Me saying she did.
For six days, Lindsey called at least five times each day, perseverating over this stocking. “I must have thrown it away,” she said, exasperated.
“You wouldn’t throw Grammy’s stocking away.” I reminded Lindsey that since her great-grandmother had died years ago, she wouldn’t be able to make another one. “I know you wouldn’t throw it away.”
“Maybe I gave it to Goodwill. I do that, you know. I give old stuff to Goodwill.”
“You wouldn’t give Grammy’s stocking to Goodwill, Lindsey.” I twisted a strand of hair around my finger, listening to my daughter’s excuses, hoping the stocking wasn’t gone forever.
Lindsey called again. And again. She said she unpacked and repacked all her boxes. Nick went through their joint Christmas box. They both went through the plastic storage containers in the locked room out in the carport.
“You must have it Mom. Could you look some more?”
“I know I don’t have it. But I’ll look around.” I knew it wasn’t at our house, so I didn’t do any searching. I remembered specifically handing it to my daughter. I remembered specifically that Lindsey walked out of the house with it tucked under her arm.
Another day. Another phone call. “You shouldn’t of given Grammy’s stocking to me Mom. It’s all your fault,” Lindsey said.
“I need to go now Linds. Keep looking.” I hung up the phone. Her comment didn’t deserve an answer. Whenever my daughter was mad at herself, she blamed everyone else. Well, er, mainly me. And I didn’t want to say something I might later regret.
Thursday afternoon, I walked through the garage door of our house to find my daughter’s precious red and white-striped stocking laying on the kitchen counter. “She found it!” I picked up the handmade sock and held it to my chest.
“No,” John said, his long face matched his serious tone. “I was looking for something in our big drawers over by the fireplace. And I found it.”
My heart plummeted to my toes. “Oh dear.” I frowned. “Then I owe Lindsey a huge apology. I better call her.” I picked up the phone and punched in my daughter’s cell phone number.
“Hold on.” John waved me into the den. “Don’t call Lindsey yet.” His mouth spread into a huge grin. “Lindsey really found it. But she asked me to help her pull a prank on you.”
“She did?” I said, holding the receiver in my hand. I tilted my head, my face turned to confusion. Lindsey never pulled pranks. My special daughter rarely teased anyone either. She was always so dang serious. “She wanted to prank me?”
“Yeah,” John said, explaining she’d gone back through a box Nick said he’d already searched. (Men never search as good as a woman, do they?) Lindsey found the stocking at the very bottom, covered with lots of other things. “But she thought it would be funny for me to tell you that it had been at our house all along.”
I smiled wide, pushed send, and Lindsey’s number rang.
“You found your stocking!” I tucked the phone between my chin and shoulder, freeing up both my hands. I pressed Lindsey’s stocking flat against the table as we talked.
“Did Dad prank you?” she asked, her voice rising with excitement. “He told me he’d have to tell you the truth. But did he prank you first?”
“Yes, he did,” I said, my smile widening with every word. I touched the green sequins Grammy had stitched onto Lindsey’s stocking and thought of my girl. “You both pranked me. Big time.”
Lindsey laughed hysterically and I joined in. But as we chatted and giggled, I realized what had delighted me the most was not that Lindsey found the stocking, it was how she’d handled this situation. She’d shown a sense of humor–which surprised me. And that, my friends, is what Christmas is all about. The little surprises in this grand ol’ holiday season.
Merry Christmas to all!
My first book will be coming out September 26, 2017. If you are interested in learning more about Loving Lindsey: Raising a Daughter with Special Needs, please click here.
