Christmas Crime of ‘09

As a child, the snow in New York City fell so heavily that snow trucks plowed piles taller than me. I distinctly remember one birthday when the snow was so relentless I had to cancel my birthday party. My mother tried to make it special with a small cake, but I felt heartbroken for days. From then on, I've always prepared backup plans for snowstorms on my birthdays. 

 In middle school, I would walk to the bus stop with a scarf wrapped around my face, my hot breath creating a wet film on the inside. With each passing day, I became skilled in running fast enough not to miss the school bus and slow enough not to slip on the sidewalks that hadn't been salted so early in the morning. The snow crunched under my boots, and my face stung red from the harsh wind that hit it. 

One year, potentially the age you are in first grade, my family stood in front of our small New York City apartment after the sun had set and street lamps turned on. My mother, father, younger brother, and I stood in our winter coats. My father wore a pair of house slippers, and my brother wore a scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face. The pavement outside our apartment was wet from the flurries of snow. My brother and I wait patiently with hands griping a mixture of glitter and crushed dried oats, otherwise known as reindeer food. I can't recall if the sandwich baggie of purple speckles was from school or a concoction my mother put together, but I remember how my cheeks ached from the late December air as I tipped the bag upside down. With the help of the wind, the purple glitter and oats decorated the sidewalk squares evenly. I was in awe of the sight. There I was, whatever age you are in first grade, single-handedly feeding Santa’s reindeer. I couldn't believe it- with these purple sparkles, reindeer would know where I lived and know I thought of them. 

My brother and I erupted in a series of excited squeals, confident Santa would most definitely be visiting our house. Each year, I think to myself, what stops me from recreating this moment for myself? I think back to the pure joy that came from a teaspoon of glitter and a cup of crushed oats. 

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I’ve never been known as a patient child. Mature for my age, sure, but somehow, my patience remained underdeveloped. This was especially true the year I turned 10- a secret act of childish impatience I have never confessed to. 

At the age of 10, I was infatuated with miniature versions of animals (My Littlest Pet Shop). This obsession continued well into my preteen years before I packed them away in the back of my closet. (I still look for them when I visit my parents)

Typically, my parents kept the Christmas tree realistically gifted before December 25th. There were enough wrapped presents to raise excitement but not enough to drive an adolescent child to debate the morals of gluttony; this was until one year when my parents decided to `showboat. That year, in the corner of my living room, was a tree surrounded by an unruly number of gifts. I can still see the stacked boxes covered in snowflake wrapping paper (my gifts in red and my brothers in blue), all signed by Mom and Dad. It was weeks before Christmas, and yet my living room paralleled the collection of gifts seen beside Santa at Macy's. 

Have my parents no mercy? I passed that tree each morning and night, adverting my eyes from the columns of balancing boxes. They called to me, attempting to seduce me into misbehavior, but I ran from their whispers. After all, I was the mature eldest daughter, and I knew better than to fall into temptation. 

Days passed, and the pile grew larger. I knew my parents were testing me. This was a test of the trust I demanded with the loss of another set of baby teeth. I was practically an adult; they had no reason not to trust me, yet my tiny fingers clawed at my hair. 

When I played in my bedroom with last year’s toys, the tree taunted me from over my shoulder. After school, I did homework on the coffee table, permitting myself to glance at the gifts from across the room. The shape, size, and creases where the wrapping paper folded imprinted on the back of my eyelids. 

One night, when my parents left my brother and me alone in the living room, I had no more strength in my little body. My brother and I sat in the dark living room, eating balagone and cheese cold cuts from the package and watching TV. I tried to focus on the children's TV show in front of me, but whispers crawled up my back like ants. I shrugged them off. 

My brother, age 8, gnawed at the balagone in his hand. At the corner of my eye, the pile of gifts was lit by the blue of the television. My first mistake was letting my eyes wander over in their direction. The whispers grew louder. As if the devil on my shoulder called for divine intervention, my brother left the room. 

I stood, the kitchen stove light casting my shadow over the forbidden fruit, and faced my first conflict of morality. My mom was in the other room, and my dad would be coming home from work at any minute, so I had to act quickly. I bit at my fingers, waiting for someone to stop me—for a parent to walk through the door and catch me before chaos—but I was alone. I was 10, after all, and old enough to have self-control. 

My jeans were too big, so I hiked them up before kneeling. I examined the gifts. They resembled the quarter-dome packaging of my favorite toys. I knew I couldn't unwrap the gifts entirely without my mom noticing, scolding me, and ruining Christmas for everyone, so I had to be clever. I didn't need to indulge. I could make it to Christmas day with just a taste. 

I picked up a quarter-dome-shaped gift and located the creased where my mother tapped it shut. As steady as I could manage my excited fingers, I gently lifted the clear tape from the wrapping paper. I was careful not to remove the snowflake print from the paper and give away my scheme through ripped gaps. I opened the wrapping just enough to peek inside. 

It was exactly what I wanted.  A light pink pig the size of my palm. 

I thought a taste would be enough, but I quickly was consumed by the need to know. I was a clever child; why stop at one when I could not get caught? 

So I picked up another gift, carefully lifted the tape, and peered in. Then another. And then another. I was drunk with gluttony. This was a harmless act of mischief—my parents would never find out, and I would no longer fight my conscience. 

By my eleventh gift, I called it quits. My gut told me I had enough, and any more would result in cosmic karma I would regret to receive. I thumbed all untapped ends of open gifts back in place and dragged my dopamine-heavy limbs to bed. Not only did I have an incredible Christmas ahead of me, but I got away with a crime.

It wasn’t until a few days later, when my mother said, “I think someone opened their presents,” that I knew the gig was up. Even with all my super secret undercover methods and careful retaping, I was found out. I had gotten sloppy somewhere. I knew they knew, but I was not going to admit it. I was 10 and said nothing—if I didn't admit to my crimes, my mother would eventually believe she was misguided in her assumptions. 

After 15 years, I finally confess: Mom, I did it and never regretted it. 

Christmas day was the performance of my young lifetime. Every gift received a reaction of pure surprise. When I unwrapped my pink pig, I was reacquainted with an old friend, though we had just met on the outside.

Later that day, after Dad collected the wrapping paper in a trash bag and Mom helped Brother build his Hot Wheels track, I went outside with my pink pig in hand. Despite the low temperature, we played in the pile of snow separating the street and sidewalk. We spun in circles, climbed the pile of snow, and cheered for our reunion. 

I dug a hole in the pile of snow, placed my pink pig toy inside, and covered her with more snow. The girl my age who lived next door had come out to play with me, but I didn’t want to share my new treasure. We played until her grandmother called her back inside, and I retired to my own home. While playing with a freshly out-of-the-box Bratz doll, my heart sank. I had left my pink pig outside in the snow. 

If I had asked my parents to go outside this late at night, they would have asked why. I couldn’t bear to tell them I had been so forgetful with my new toy—I was 10, after all, and 10-year-olds take care of their toys. So, I kept my mouth shut until the next morning, when I ran downstairs and clawed through the pile of snow. 

As I dug, I imagined the snow melting, displaying my sweet pink pig to a greedy child passing by. They might have taken her for sure, and I would have been left pigless. I dug deeper, cracking the ice that formed over the pile of snow overnight. Moments before tears fell from my eyes, I saw the tips of her pink ears. Relief washed over me. I ripped her tiny body from the avalanche of snow and kissed her bobblehead. 

If this was a lesson sent by the universe for my recent mischief, I did not learn it. I skipped home smiling and a pink pig richer.