My sister sent me this link:

http://wondertime.go.com/parent-to-parent/article/spend-free-holidays_PF.html

Rediscovering the meaning behind the holidays may be a bright side of a crumbling economy.  Enough with the trampling at Walmart for cheaper flat screen tvs, and going out on credit card limbs to keep up with the Joneses. I like this woman’s article even if she did name her kids Otis and Ezekial:

 

Stuffed

By Susanna Sonnenberg

A family cuts back on the holiday gift gorge and finds there’s no present like time.

Christmas makes me crazy. More stuff, more spending, and no time.

Since my sons were born, they have been racking up loot. Ezekiel, 12, once was obsessed with penguins and had a book of penguin poems, a colony of 20 stuffed birds, and a chair in the shape of a penguin. Otis, who just turned 8, loves Playmobil, and his collection has grown with every birthday, and every Christmas, and just because.

I’ll admit the boys aren’t gimme-gimme kids. Rarely have they whined for a video game a friend has or thrown a tantrum in a store. Still, in their lifetimes, they’ve accrued novelty bath mats, toy saxophones, magnets, stickers, key rings, mobiles. They’re lucky. We all are. And then at Christmastime, like everyone else, like me, they expect more.

In theory, my husband Andrew and I were hoping to raise our sons with nonmaterialistic values, yet we couldn’t help overdosing them with stuff. We were hooked on the narcotic hit of their momentary delight as they opened the next new thing. We longed to provide them with everything in the wide world. No wonder I felt crazy.

Finally, three Christmases ago, I just couldn’t do the same old thing anymore. I’d been reading Bill McKibben’s Hundred Dollar Holiday: The Case for a More Joyful Christmas, and I started to think about the ways money bossed us around. Christmas wants us to spend. It lets us spend, the way pregnancy lets us eat. Andrew and I decided we’d try a no-spend holiday: We’d give the kids presents but would buy nothing. The plan to separate gifts from money felt raw and weird and dangerous. Friends predicted it would fail; one said simply, “How could you?”

We weren’t sure. We sat the kids down and said, “Boys, this Christmas we’re not going to spend money.” (We would need to repeat this a lot — to ourselves and to them.) “We’re going to find other ways of giving.”

They looked concerned, and Otis said, “Are we still going to get presents?” When I said they would, they shrugged and went out to kick a soccer ball, leaving the new philosophy to us.

I confess their November birthdays had left them sated, so maybe they didn’t feel the sting too sharply. But I also know we’re lucky to have kids who are as open to new ideas as they are to new stuff. They’re happy with any opportunity to ask a zillion questions; we just have to be ready with answers.

Andrew and I came up with gift ideas: certificates for bowling, camping, making sushi. I illustrated a story for Otis; my husband made a DVD of Ezekiel’s baby movies. These things took time, but we had more time now.

Without the shopping, I felt almost guilty, as if I were getting away with something. But I was so much freer, not only to be creative but also to be fully present with my kids (who did ask about twice a day, “Are you sure we’re getting presents?”). On winter break, we lounged on the couch and read books. We went sledding. During the hours I spent making Otis’s book, colored pencils in hand, I thought about who Otis was, instead of what he wanted.

On Christmas morning, though, I panicked. For one thing, I wasn’t getting a present. Andrew and I had agreed we wouldn’t give each other gifts, but now I felt ripped off.

The boys, however, did beautifully. They noted how many presents they had — one, two, three — and carefully opened them. We’d made Otis a ticket to be the Boss of Mama for a Day, and he was thrilled. Ezekiel was insanely pleased by the camel chopsticks, a present I’d overlooked the previous Christmas and stashed in the basement. Instead of being overwhelmed, they paid attention to what was before them. I relaxed. I forgot (well, almost forgot) my longing for suede gloves. With less stuff, there was less that had to be done (no hunt for batteries, no onerous cleanup), and we spent a slow, lovely day together.

I’d like to say it all worked out that well, but of course, it didn’t. It was a struggle to quiet my anxiety in the seasonal din. Because I’d opted out of the December craze, my sister’s kids got their package late. For weeks afterward, whenever Otis tried to redeem his Boss coupon, I’d be chopping onions or packing lunches and I’d say, “Later.”

But other things, surprising things, turned out better than we expected. The boys never missed toys that weren’t there, and that made me wonder what could happen if we just gave kids the room not to want stuff.

After that, we began approaching Christmas as an adventure. The next year, as a family, each of us asked for one gift. Otis couldn’t grasp the concept of “one,” so Ezekiel made suggestions, among them The Complete Adventures of Curious George. It was just one book — yet he adores that book, has carried it onto every airplane, shown it off at school.

Last year, at the boys’ suggestion, we each got one main present and one surprise. (Ezekiel got a ski day alone with his dad; Otis got to “sleep in the big bed” with us on Christmas night.)

We haven’t eliminated their obsessions over lacrosse gear or iPods, and the boys’ birthdays still provoke wild binges on our part. But we have started a conversation in our family. We found that even a small change promotes a shift, and I’ve learned that the point isn’t to stop spending money, but to be awake to our decisions. This year I look forward to Christmas because it doesn’t feel like a bloated habit anymore, but a chance to explore the precious depth of being together.