I love my childhood stocking. My Dad’s mom made it and it’s the symbol of Christmas magic to me. The stocking is my favorite part of Christmas morning. No matter how many presents were under the tree, Christmas always felt like it started when we, wide-eyed with anticipation, carefully pulled out each treasure from within the stocking. And Christmas always felt like it ended when the last item had been dug out, the bottom of the stocking checked, rechecked, and triple checked for emptiness. There were still presents under the tree, and I loved them, but the anticipation and excitement of the stocking was unrivaled.
You remember how hard it was to go to sleep on Christmas Eve? Knowing that Santa was coming and yet knowing he wouldn’t come until I fell asleep was torture. It was like taking a NoDoz and a sleeping pill and hoping for the best. You know you need to sleep, but can’t. One Christmas, I had a particularly hard time staying asleep. My bedroom was on the second floor and opened to a balcony that overlooked the entire living room. Each time I’d awaken, I’d sneak out to see if Santa had come. On the third time, there it was. The Stocking. And although Santa had most likely brought me something awesome that was sitting out in plain sight, I couldn’t see anything else but the glittery, beckoning, felt and sequined embodiment of temptation. There’s something spectacular about the heft and shape of a filled stocking. My stocking had a rosy-cheeked Santa who always looked so fat and jolly when he was stuffed.
I deftly made my way downstairs and dared to peer into the depths of its wonder. I could see a Hello Kitty emblem, the traditional Book of Lifesavers, something fuzzy, and then…was that the top of a Star Wars figure? I could see the logo; I knew the familiar cardboard box. But I couldn’t quite see which character. I oh-so gently removed the top item from the stocking. I swear the sound of a Life Saver box coming out of a felt stocking was like a jet engine in the living room. I removed the Hello Kitty stationery set. Did it have bells on it? It was so loud! I removed the fuzzy thing and there it was. Luke Skywalker in the orange X-wing suit. I lovingly removed him from his sleeping place and marveled at him. Santa was truly amazing. I decided not to press my luck and place everything back in the stocking, but realized as I put Luke back that there was the bottom of a Star Wars figure box further down. Two Star Wars characters! Oh, Santa, surely I was naughtier than to deserve two! And that was it, the stocking was completely emptied and I sat among my loot so happy. An orange Luke Skywalker and a Chewbacca. I’m still aglow with the memory of that moment.
I replaced the items in my stocking, too caught up in my reverie to replace them in the correct sequence. That Christmas came and went and the next year, I made my trip downstairs to look at the stocking in the dead of night. To my surprise, everything on the top of the stocking was crinkly or honestly covered in bells. So, Santa knew. It felt like it took me an hour that year to go through my stocking noiselessly. I learned to replace the toys exactly as they came out, but it didn’t matter. Each year after that, Santa placed the noisiest treasures at the top of the stocking and each thing within it was put together like Jenga. One year, there was even a toy that spoke loudly when I moved it.
I don’t remember when my yearly sneaking tradition stopped, but it was well into high school. It’s a fond memory that my parents and I laugh at now, although I never dared to tell them when I was a child in case they had ways of communicating with Santa. My kids aren’t afraid of Santa, though; because they confessed to me that they have been planning and executing midnight raids on their stockings for the last few years. Strangely, knowing their secret keeps the magic going for me.
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