Nobody likes the youngest child

We have a lot of Christmas stockings at our house.

Early on we picked up an especially homely white stocking. It’s the only one we have that’s not a lovely Christmas scene set against a deep navy blue or elegant red background. Instead of a finely decorated tree or old-fashioned Santa Claus traipsing through the snow, it has a messy pile of loud, colorful toys climbing the front. When I was 10 I fell in love with it, insisting it was mine and nobody else could use it. (And that it had to be in the center of the fireplace display at all times)

One year my mother got confused about whose stocking was whose (or, more likely, just didn’t care.) I woke up early, dumped out everything in my sister’s stocking and switched it with mine. Keep in mind my mother has always given us identical stocking stuffers and simply switching the labels would have sufficed, but it’s the principal and, to be honest, I’d probably do the same thing today.

My stocking’s gone this year. Replaced by a snowman wearing a top hat and a tasteful vest against a dark blue, star speckled sky. This happens every year but it’s the first time I’ve let my mom have her way and not fished mine out of the bottom of the box. (See I do love her) As we eat breakfast together this morning she announces she’s finally buying a full set of matching stockings and getting rid of all the old ones (mine included).

She pulls out a Lands End catalogue dog-eared in the stocking section. I give it a cursory glance and immediately circle this one.



She’s since decided to wait until next year.