In which a small bear saves Christmas

Look at that excited face contemplating that very obvious gift. Oh, but just a few hours later, how that joyful countenance would change. 

My boys were 6 and 2 ½ that year. I had left Florida over a year before, feeling like I was running for our lives. Putting my life back together in a way that made sense was a constant struggle. Having my mom and grandma just down the street helped, but there was no denying we were at poverty level. I put a few toys on layaway in September, so they would have something from me. 

But little kids don’t start thinking about Christmas until the decorations start going up. What Daniel suddenly wanted was a teddy bear. I just didn’t have the money for even a cheap one. I was hoping that in the excitement he would forget. The day with family certainly was filled with enough treats and surprises. 

Back in our own little shack of a house, Daniel stomps back and forth from toy to toy. He snatches up his stick horse, stomps to the front door, tosses it out into the dark, and slams the door. Then looks at me and bursts into tears. 

I bring the horse back in. Then I sit on the couch and open my arms to him. He doesn't even have words for his feelings. So I say “I know, sometimes it is really hard when a special day is over.” 

Finally he chokes out “I didn’t get a teddy bear!”

So the day after Christmas, I’m back at my grandma’s, raiding her supplies. Back home, I turn a scrap of brown corduroy, some leftover stuffing, and a lot of hope into a flatish little bear. I say flatish, because of course I added a nub of a tail. I embroidered a simple face and an outline of a heart with “Daniel” in it. The bear is named George and Daniel has his friend. 

Then the second morning after Christmas. “Daniel, why aren’t you dressed?”

“I don’t have any clothes for George.”

A scrap of red cotton and a bit of denim recycled from worn out jeans (and more crossed fingers from me). Soon George has a shirt and overalls and the buddies are ready for the day. 

George was with Dan many years. They both had a few bumps and mends over the years. I’m not sure if he made it through all the changes and moves of the 40+ years since. 

But that isn’t why I still think of this story year after year. For me, it was a defining moment of my parenting. 

When I went to raid scraps from my grandma and told my mom about Daniel stomping and throwing she said “I hope you paddled his little butt!” And I told her no, I hugged him and comforted him. I remembered my own experiences as a kid. I made different choices in raising my kids than my parents and their parents did. My mom often did not agree. 

Family traditions can be a wonderful tie to our past and our history. But some family traditions can be destructive and pass down generational trauma. It takes courage to change what needs to change. I know I didn’t always get it right, but my second husband and I worked hard to change the narrative going forward. I think we did ok. But every parent faces new challenges. The story goes on.