So a group of mondo-A-lister outrageously amazing bloggers decided to do Christmas Memory Blog Swap.
And I totally conned them into letting me play! HA!
Sadly there are no Martha Points for sneakiness or trick-fakery. (Or, fake-trickery.)
And since there will be no cake in IPoMP land without icing, allow me to present the sweet spreadable confection that I get to host:
Sherri from Old Tweener.
Can we say “thrilled?” How ’bout “overjoyed?”
I knew ya could.
Sherri is totally the icing on my Christmas Cake. (Not to be confused with Crater Bread.)
So without further ado…
Gumby vs. Pokey
When I was growing up we often traveled by car to visit my grandparents for the Christmas holidays. At that time they lived in Albuquerque New Mexico and we were in Colorado, which meant a lot of quality time spent in the backseat of the car with my younger brother.
And by quality time, I mean exactly what you are thinking.
If you have kids of your own, I’m sure you can picture this scene. Except this was pre-video game, pre-cell phone, pre-anything that would make the trip easier. We each had a paper grocery bag we were allowed to fill with toys and games, and these bags doubled as the barrier between us in the backseat. The barrier through which no arms could poke or fingers could pinch.
I often would slowly push the bags closer to him, gaining maybe an inch or two in my own personal space.
It was good to be the oldest.
So we would travel in this manner for hours (seemed like days to me) and arrive in Albuquerque with just the things our car could carry. Two sacks of toys and treasures, a few suitcases, and two small-ish children.
Which added to the mystery of how all the gifts magically arrived at my grandparent’s house. And how Santa knew where to find us on Christmas Eve.
Christmas morning would come and gifts would be pouring out of our stockings, left along the hearth and beneath the beautifully decorated white flocked tree. Our Santa didn’t wrap the presents because (duh) they just came straight from the workshop, straight from the workbenches of those toiling little elves. Bicycles were assembled, toys had batteries in them already, and everything was ready to play with.
So this sets the scene for my Christmas memory.
One particular year when I was probably old enough to know better, I woke up at my grandparent’s house in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. And while a girl whose name was on the “Nice” list on Santa’s desk would have simply gone back to bed, for some unknown reason I did not.
This was completely out of character for me. I was a rule-follower, a tattler, and a by-the-book type of kid. I have witnesses.
So I quietly snuck out to the family room where the tree was, just to take a look.
I’ll just look. What could it hurt?
Of course just looking from afar turned into looking a bit closer, which then turned to checking out the stash from Santa. And looking in the stockings.
I couldn’t just look at my stuff; I had to be fair and take a look at what Santa brought for my little brother too.
What if it’s better than mine?
And that’s when it happened.
We each had a twistable action figure from our favorite cartoon series, Gumby and Pokey, in our stockings. Gumby was, well that Gumby-type guy. And Pokey was the horse.
I was crazy about horses. But Pokey was in my brother’s stocking.
Oh, the horror.
Santa must have been confused. Why in the world would a horse-crazy 8 or 9 year old girl want Gumby when she could have Pokey?
So I did what any girl on that “Nice” list would do.
I helped Santa out by righting his wrong, by fixing his obvious mistake.
I switched them.
There was no fall-out from my parents the next morning, no why-did-I-get-Gumby crying from my brother. Nothing. I had pulled off the incredible Christmas Eve switcheroo and nobody was the wiser.
But I felt incredibly guilty.
Many, many years later (I think I was in my 30’s) I bought my brother a Pokey for Christmas and told him the story. It was better than therapy, the burden I’d carried for years being lifted.
It may have even restored my standing on that “Nice” list.
Oh Sherri, Sherri…no wonder you never got the Barbie Penthouse Apartment.
So where did I end up, you ask?
And if you did not ask, why the hell not??
I am sharing a memory of a Christmas and the reincarnation of plush white blanket at Ashley’s place, Just Another Mom of Two.
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