Confession: I Secretly Love Stuffing My Own Stocking

I remember the last Christmas stocking my husband filled for me before we separated .There was one bar out of a three-pack of Oil-of-Olay soap tucked in the bottom. I assume if we had stayed together I could have looked forward to the other two being parsed out over the next few years. There were also some of the kids’ chocolate Santas sprinkled in my stocking, a DVD of You’ve Got Mail with the price still on it, dollar store mini gloves, a few pairs of white tube socks taken from a bulk pack of socks. He was already wearing one of the other pairs with his pajamas on Christmas morning. (this is all that same christmas right?)

He tried, is what I told myself on Christmas morning. At least he’s trying. Which is kind of funny to me now because every item in that sad little stocking was tinged with how little he tried to be thoughtful or wanted to be thoughtful or, worst of all, thought he should have to be thoughtful. And of course he benefited from the impossibility of my potential complaint. From my desperation to protect Christmas morning for my kids. From how foolish and petty and childish I felt it would be to even concern myself with what was in my stocking. I couldn’t even really figure out why I felt so desperately awful about that stocking every year of my marriage. Or surprised. It was the same all the time, year in and year out. Gifts are not my love language. It wasn’t as though there was something I wanted to see in that stocking.

Maybe I just wanted to be seen by that stocking. Maybe I just wanted my husband to want things for me, to consider me, to know me on some level.

Instead our holidays together looked like pretty much every other day together. I felt taken for granted and he felt exhausted by my constant demands and checklists. Take out the trash, help with the dishes, clear the snow off the car, on and on and on.

By the next year, I was the keeper of that checklist. Truth be told, I was always the keeper of that checklist. The default trash taker/diaper changer/dish doer in the house. The default stuffing stocker for everyone. I resented it when I was married. That held breath in every day when I waited and waited for my husband to do the things. Any of the things. The mountains I climbed to flip some sort of switch in him was the hardest job of all.

When we left, I stopped holding my breath and just did all of the things. And as hard as it was, it was also kind of a joy. To let go of wishing someone else would see me and know me and just see and know myself.

At last, I could stuff my own stocking.

Was it sad that first Christmas? To go out and buy myself gifts with my face all red and humiliated, like the checkout person at Walmart knew the little bag of Lindor chocolates was for me and me alone? Did I consider just not putting out my sad stocking at all? Of course.

But I had kids. Sons, specifically. I wanted them to grow up to consider other people. To see their partners and maybe think about how they felt. So I gritted my teeth that first year, went out and bought a few small things for my stocking. Nothing exciting, just some festive soft socks and some bulk store candy and nice-smelling soap. My older boys were delighted. We swapped a few chocolates for variety.

It was like I became two people every Christmas after that. The person who bought the stocking stuffers and then the other person who opened them. I surprised myself every year. I never spent much because I never had much, but I picked well for the woman I would be on Christmas morning. I bought the good chocolate. The beeswax candles. The secondhand mittens from the Goodwill and a thick book I found at a little free library. I thought about myself as the person I would become in cold, dark January who would want to be cozy and relaxed. I thought about myself, period. Every year.

Sometimes I do wish I had married someone who wanted to do things for me. Who knew what snacks I liked or how soft I liked my socks or that I really wanted a new pottery mug for my tea. But I also wonder if I ever would have figured myself out if I hadn’t been forced to. If I would have met myself in the same way. Because stuffing my own stocking has become a beloved ritual for me, even now. Even though my sons are adults with lovely partners and we all like to throw a few things into each other’s stockings at Christmas.

It’s my own little treat for me.

Jen McGuire is a contributing writer for Romper and Scary Mommy. She lives in Canada with four boys and teaches life writing workshops where someone cries in every class. When she is not traveling as often as possible, she’s trying to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with her neighbors. She will sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once, but she’s open to requests.