I used to love Christmas with no reservation

Then, as the role of Santa Claus fell upon my shoulders as a young father, my Christmas spirit soured. The cost of Christmas glared.

‘Twas less than two weeks before Christmas and all through the house, no pressure was mounting, I was as light as a mouse.

Actually, I sit inside a suburban coffee shop upon this writing, sunshine pouring in like buckets of rum-spiked eggnog. Visions of Christmas past — especially of the holiday rush filled with pressurized, last-minute shopping — dance inside my head.

But I no longer feel dread.

It’s not that my Christmas spirit was ever, well, uh, dead. Indeed I’ve always had an affinity for this most magical time of the year. Except I have now outgrown my fears.

My fear of not having enough money to purchase all the “gifts” necessary to convey my sense of thoughtfulness and love to those “special” people in my life.

Fear. Of buying something for someone who would deem my gift insufficient in monetary value or thoughtfulness. The fear that Christmas would approach with its usual nerve-wracking unsettlement, like going to the dentist for a root canal or an extraction, which feels so good once it’s finally all over.

I used to love Christmas with no reservation.

As a kid, I lived for it, relished the anticipation that whistled like a teakettle on Christmas Eve. I used to love to hunt for Christmas treasures stored inside my mother’s closet — beneath mounds of high heels, blankets and yellow page telephone books — in hopes of getting a glimpse of what “Santa” had in store.

Then, as I grew older, especially as the role of Santa Claus fell upon my shoulders as a young father with little hearts to be filled with Christmas cheer and toys, my Christmas spirit soured. The cost of Christmas glared, particularly as a warped commercialized version of Christmas spread like the flu.

I bought into the notion that in order to have a “good” Christmas you had to buy certain preordained or prescribed accoutrements for that given year. One year, it was Cabbage Patch dolls. Another, it was Air Jordans (which I refused to buy)… Atari video game systems. Easy Bake Ovens. Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em robots. Bikes.

Mostly, it was myriad other gifts, costly or not, that triggered a migraine of anxiety amid my poverty and inability sometimes to make ends meet.

I grew to hate Christmas. OK, hate is a strong word. So maybe not hate. But the pressure surrounding Christmas surely almost made me curse it.

“I wish Christmas only came around every other year,” I used to say, meaning every word.

It mattered not that I have always known the real reason for the season. That the Christ child — the baby Jesus — was born in a manger, savior of the world, without creature comforts or the excesses to which so many of us have become accustomed.

It was time and life, maturity, bitter realities and death that have freed me from the commercial trance; from this idea that Christmas joy boils down to stuff you can buy instead of life’s most precious substance, which is free and yet priceless: breath, love, family, health, peace, life. Next to these, there is no comparison.

Still, the National Retail Federation has reported it expects for holiday retail sales during November and December to increase by up to 4.2 percent from 2018, to a total of up to $730.7 billion.

I’m not likely to contribute much to that figure.

“Hey man, have you finished your Christmas shopping?” a friend asks upon entering the café.

“Yep, I finished it before I even began,” I answer, explaining that I no longer subscribe to the seasonal commercial grind.

No pressure, I explained. I’m feeling as light as a mouse.

Email: Author@johnwfountain.com

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