The Christmas Stapler

I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It's not bad at all, really. Maybe it just needs a little love.- Charlie Brown's Christmas.
 

The moment I realized Santa did not exist was the exact moment when I realized how much my mom loved me. 

Really, nothing epitomizes love more than putting someone's happiness or joy above your own need for recognition.

All those years I spent thinking Santa was the kindest man alive; turns out those thoughts belonged to her. 

Mom has never been affectionate.  I love you isn't in her vocabulary.  She was raised in an abusive home. 

Her childhood Christmases were an illusion.  Her stepmother made sure their house was decorated with lights and a manger scene every December.  But it was for the neighbors.  For the mere sake of creating the perception that mom and her family were festive.  Even the Christmas tree they had was simply nothing more than a large house plant for friends and other family to admire.  There weren't presents underneath.  It was just a tree with ornaments and an angel on top.

Her home was not a house of love.

When God dreamed up this idea of creating people in His own image, He did a miraculous thing.  He gave women the maternal instinct.  No matter how a woman is raised or the cruelty inflicted upon her, when she has kids, she will protect them and love them.  At all costs.

Mom may not say she loves me.  She may never tell me she is proud of me.  But I have childhood Christmas memories that prove she does and is.


I hold onto that this time of year.

Around the age of nine, I really wanted to repay my mom for all the presents she ever bought me.  I was starting to realize that Christmas really never fit into the budget but she always found a way to squeeze a few things in.

A few days before Christmas as she was at work, I rummaged through her desk.  Buried underneath some papers was a stapler.  Because I have always desperately sought approval from her, really from everyone, I thought it would be a great Christmas present.

I grabbed her own stapler; wrapped it in newspaper and put it under our humble Christmas tree.

I was proud to be finally giving her a gift instead of the usual handmade Christmas cards.  Sure, it was her own stapler but it never occurred to me she would recognize it.

That rush of giving was quite intoxicating; which led me to buying her my first Christmas gift.  A bottle of Charlie perfume.  Collecting aluminum cans and washing the neighbor's car in the middle of winter allowed nine year old me to pay for it.

Mom was getting TWO presents from me.  I had never felt more proud and excited.

Christmas morning came.  I wanted her to open my presents first. 

First, she opened the perfume. 
And then, the stapler.

Mom loved the perfume.  She immediately sprayed some on; just to show me she loved it.

Then came time for the stapler.  I swear a tear, maybe a few, swelled in her eyes. 

"How did you know I needed a stapler?" 

I don't really remember my answer but I was damn proud of myself.  That maternal instinct must have kicked in because all she did was talk about how thoughtful it was.  It was the best present she ever received she told me repeatedly.

The idea that the stapler I stole from her meant more to her than the $10 bottle of perfume I bought her with my own money fascinated me at the time.  Little did I know, she was teaching me a lesson.  Maybe, she didn't know it, either.



A few years ago, I helped her pack up some boxes so she could store things at my house.  As we were going through some old relics and assorted items she had collected through the years, I stumbled upon that stapler.

"I can't believe you still have this", I curiously stated.

"Of course I do.  It's the stapler you took from me and then gave back to me as a Christmas present.  How could I ever lose the most thoughtful present I have ever received?", she stated without a single ounce of sarcasm.  She meant it.

I suppose presents come and go.  They are short lived; used and then discarded at a later date for something better.  But those things that come from the heart wrapped in good intentions and selflessness never perish.

Mom will never say she loves me.

She doesn't have to.

And I don't have to tell her, either.

There's a stapler from 1981 that says it better than either of us.