Merry Christmas, Mom (12-18-06)

I’m doing something this Christmas that I haven’t done since I was probably seven years old. I am giving my mom a homemade Christmas gift.

No, I am not going to trace my hand and decorate it like a turkey (that would be Thanksgiving, anyway), and I am not going to fold a piece of paper into four and cut out geometric shapes along the edges to make a magic snowflake. There will not be a green construction paper Christmas tree layered with too much glue and not enough glitter, nor a misshapen snow man missing one eye and half an arm.

This Christmas I am going to make for my mom something for which I have at least a modicum of talent. I am going make her a column.

This will be the first time my mom will read my Principal Perspective. She doesn’t even know I write for the paper. I suppose I should have told her or anyone in my extended family that I was now a “published author” (kind of) but things just happened (kind of).

I never expected my article on hazing, the one that began it all, to generate such a positive response. I never would have guessed the charge of satisfaction I would get in seeing my name in print, even if it was just in a small town paper that prints most anything sent in by most anybody.

I certainly never anticipated writing so many columns or enjoying it so much. My original intention was to write The Principal Perspective every now and then. But, again, something unexpected happened. Each week, the good people of this town went out of their way to pass along kind words for what I had written. I found myself with a fan base, and thus my column became a weekly habit that I wanted to keep.

Though I wanted to share what I had accomplished with my mom. I saw an opportunity to give her a surprise Christmas present. So this one is you, mom.

Being the first column for her to read, I have spent a lot of time considering what I wanted to say. After weeks of deliberating, all I came up with is a simple: Thank You.

My mom was always the one who made Christmas special in my childhood. She’d drive us to the local YMCA to get our real tree, and she’d hang the boy scout greenery over the fireplace and down the banister. She would play one Christmas record after another (this was back in the day of vinyl records) and to this day I get a little nostalgic when I hear Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas” or Harry Belafonte crooning “Mary’s Boy Child.”

I can remember so clearly carrying the sagging cardboard boxes up from the musty basement. I can see her fussing over Christmas bulbs that wouldn’t light. I can hear her tell the story of our family angel, worn and tattered, but always perched at the top of the tree. I can remember the shopping trips to Metcalf South Mall, the obligatory visit to Santa Claus. And I remember the hours in a back room wrapping one present after another, until our tree was completely ensconced in brightly colored packages.

During my childhood, Christmas was always a special time of year. More than just the decorations, the music, or the presents, my mother was able to pass on to my sisters and me an incredible warmth of family and a lasting appreciation of the season.

Now, as my wife and I raise our own children, we try to create the same atmosphere of love and holiday goodness for our children. We were raised by good parents and now we try to be good parents in return.

So thank you, mom. We love you. Merry Christmas.