Running with Scissors

Sara Peterson-Davis has worked as a newspaper researcher and reporter, as well as a communications director and consultant. She and her husband, Monty Davis, can be found in Liberty, Mo., keeping their two children from running with scissors. Contact Sara

The Case of the Hijacked Christmas

If you’re tired of all those syrupy-sweet stories of holiday inspiration, then I’ve got a tale for you.

It’s a dark tale so full of deceit and betrayal it will make every youngest child among you rise up in indignation and buy a lump of coal for your older siblings. And it will cause the oldest children among you — and you know who you are — to snicker quietly to yourselves and then book the next flight out of town to avoid any awkward holiday scenes.

Our wayward tale of Christmas begins on a blustery night nearly 40 years ago in a little house on the Kansas prairie.

My sister and I were huddled over the Sears Christmas catalog searching for the perfect toy to ask Santa to deliver.

This was a serious business around our house because it was the only time during the year we could ask for something really special and have any chance of actually getting it. While our parents could be counted on for pajamas, socks, flashlights and the occasional board game, Santa was the guy to go to for the big stuff.

Ever hopeful, I always topped my list to Santa with a request for a real live horse. While that was what I wanted most in the world, I knew enough to have a backup plan. Each Christmas I flipped through the catalog pages looking at the skateboards, chemistry sets, telescopes and bicycles looking for just the right thing. You never found me looking at the dolls. As far as I was concerned dolls were dumb. Dolls were my sister Laurie’s thing. She loved each and every one she saw in the pages of every catalog. Only problem was she had to narrow her choice down to just one … or did she?

Which brings us back to the night in question. Now it was getting late in the season and our mom had told us we needed to get our letters written to Santa. If we didn’t get them in the mail, she couldn’t guarantee Santa would bring what we wanted.

Any other year this wouldn’t have been a problem, but this year I was stuck. While I planned on running the equine request past Santa again, my backup plan of asking for a motor scooter or a trampoline had been shot down by my folks. Now I was blank.

I was waiting for my turn at the catalog when Laurie suggested that I ask for a doll.

“No way!” I replied.

“You don’t have any dolls.”

“You know that’s because I hate playing with dolls.”

“You’ve never really tried.”

I had given it a try. I just didn’t understand the entertainment value of dressing, diapering and feeding little plastic human beings. Now chasing down our toy poodle, Dominic, and dressing him in doll clothes was good for some laughs. I was about to point this out when Laurie interrupted.

“If you got a doll, we could play together.”

That caught me totally off guard. Playing with me was never a voluntary activity for Laurie. I was more of a “break glass in case of emergency” kind of playmate. She had my attention.

“We’ll ask Santa for dolls and we can play all day long together. And I know Mom and Dad would really like it if you asked Santa for a doll,” she added, wiser than a tree full of owls.

“Really,” I replied with suspicion. I had no idea our parents cared one bit whether I played with dolls or not. The only one in the house bothered by my tomboy streak was Laurie.

“Look at this one,” Laurie piped up. “This one’s perfect, she has a horse.”

Sure enough, there on the page was a little doll in pink and yellow-striped pajamas holding on to a plastic horse on wheels. Her tightly curled blond hair made her look a bit middle-aged. The catalog copy described how she crawled across the floor and even walked with the help of her trusty steed.

“Doesn’t that sound great?”

“I guess,” I said lukewarmly.

“Let’s write Santa tonight,” Laurie said, pushing me toward a decision like a seasoned car dealer.

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on we’ll have so much fun. You know you’re not getting a horse. And come on if you don’t get your letter in soon, you might not get anything.”

My head was spinning. If I asked Santa for a doll, my sister would willingly play with me and for some reason my parents would be happy. But the clincher was the prospect of finding nothing from Santa under the tree. Even if it was a doll, it was something. In the days before Christmas, I nearly had myself convinced that Baby What’s-Her-Face was what I truly wanted. Laurie and I talked about how we sure hope Santa brought us dolls for Christmas. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Then came Christmas morning. And sure enough there were the dolls we’d asked for in big boxes underneath the tree. Soon we had them out of the boxes, batteries installed and mine was walking across the floor behind her horse. Although I tried to hide it, I was underwhelmed by Baby Whoever-She-Was’ ability to entertain.

As promised Laurie spent Christmas break playing with me. We played dolls morning, noon and night. She was in heaven and I was bored out of my mind.

I started wandering off and leaving Baby-Pushy-Pony in Laurie’s care. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she really didn’t care if I was around at all. She was too busy playing with those two dolls to notice me.

Hey, wait a second. She had two dolls to enjoy and I had…squat.

Like most scam victims, I had little recourse. I had willingly participated in my own downfall. If I went to local law enforcement – Mom and Dad – I’d get the “didn’t it seem too good to be true” lecture.

Now years later, Laurie and I laugh about the whole sordid affair. She remembers fondly how gullible I was. I fondly remember… I don’t have any fond memories of that Christmas.

I wonder if I can make a few happy memories this Christmas. Where can I get my hands on a big lump of coal before Christmas Eve?

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