The Worst Christmas Present I Ever Got

I’ve written before about the worst Christmas present I ever received, but I have no expectation that any of you are aware of the vast majority of things I’ve written, so I will retell the story today.

As you may or may not know, I grew up in a lesbian household. My mother, Jill, left my father for the neighbor lady, and I grew up with them. This was the mid-to-late 1970’s, and my mother and her partner felt themselves to be on the vanguard of the women’s movement, then in full flower. They subscribed to Ms. Magazine and regularly made comments about “male chauvinist pigs” and forced us to watch the movie 9 to 5, a revenge fantasy about women sticking it to their boss who was – well - a male chauvinist pig.

To be a young male in that household was to grow up doubting the validity of one’s gender expression. When I ran around the house screaming and launching my Evel Knievel action figure from his wind-up motorcycle ramp, was I displaying what we now call “toxic masculinity”? Or was I just five?

Hard to know.

Although we were all Jews, we always celebrated Christmas because why wouldn’t you? Christmas is incredible, especially for Jews. All of the gifts, none of the churchgoing. Fabulous.

This fuck-o right here.

That year, the first or second of their relationship, I remember watching the pile of presents growing under our tree (artificial, of course, because we might have been pretending to be Christian for the purpose of the holiday, but we weren’t going to deal with a live tree over it). There were three boys (my brother and I plus her partner’s son) and one girl, my sister Susan, who has Down Syndrome. My mom always said we were celebrating Christmas for Susan’s benefit, but the truth is that everybody just liked getting presents. None more than I.

On Christmas morning, we boys woke up early and scrambled downstairs to see if Santa had been. He had. It was never explained to me how Santa knew which Jewish houses to visit during Christmas. Maybe there’s a form you send in. I don’t know. Regardless, the pile under the tree was even larger than it had been the night before, and I couldn’t help but notice that the largest gift, what appeared to be a very large box indeed, had my name on it. “For Michael, from Santa.”

The biggest gift was mine!

Although I had already heard the expression that good things come in small packages, I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now. That’s just something people to say to make the recipients of small-sized presents feel better about themselves. The truth is, the best presents are the biggest presents and anybody who doesn’t understand that is either lying to themselves or doesn’t deserve Christmas.

I could tell that the other boys were envious. How could they not be? It was a really big box. As soon as I saw it, I knew I would be saving that one to open last. It looked too small to be a Big Wheel, but maybe it was a video game system? Or my own little TV? Or perhaps some fabulous imported toy from a far-off land like Pennsylvania. I had no idea and the suspense wasn’t exactly killing me, but it probably gave me a minor arrhythmia.

Finally – FINALLY – Mom and her partner came downstairs. We opened the stockings first: Mad Libs, chocolates, little rubber balls, assorted other wonderful boy garbage. Then we had breakfast: interminable, soggy, hurry up! After the dishes were cleared and washed - GOD, HURRY UP - we returned to the living room for the Unwrapping of the Gifts.

I have no memory of any other present I received that year but I certainly remember the anticipation of opening that giant box last, after everybody else had opened their own presents, when all eyes would be upon me as I unveiled this wonder, this Holy of Holies. What would it be? What could it be? I will tell you – it was an EZ Bake Oven.

What the fuck was this bullshit?

Maybe you remember the EZ Bake Oven, maybe you do not. Regardless, here is the box.

Fun fact: the child on that box grew up to be serial killer Aileen Wuornos.

What do you notice? The bright 70’s colors, the Children of the Corn child model? Betty Crocker’s Home-Ec-Teacher-Looking visage gazing serenely out at the future homemakers of America? What do you not notice? I will tell you. BOYS!

This was girl crap through-and-through. You and I, enlightened adults, are able t discern that there’s no practical difference between toys. A girl can love any toy as much as a boy, and vice versa. Well, you can stick your enlightened bullshit back up your own ass because this little boy was devastated and embarrassed to receive a “girl toy” for Christmas. What the hell had my mother been thinking? I will tell you.

Even at five or six-years-old, I immediately understood that my mother and her new love had decided that their boys wouldn’t fall victim to gender stereotyping. No, no. Their boys would not grow up to be male chauvinistic pigs. Instead, they would grow up to be like their role model for men, Alan Alda, who, no doubt, would have squealed with delight after receiving a kitchen utensil powered by two 100 watt lightbulbs.

To my young eyes, the gift was a betrayal. It felt as though I were being dragged into a political movement in which I had no interest, and which I found vaguely embarrassing, particularly when talk of bras would arise, as it seemed to in my house on a regular basis. I wanted mayhem, my mother wanted Hawkeye Pierce.

Of course, I grew up to be exactly the sort of man my mother hoped I would become insomuch as I fly my feminist proudly, but young Michael didn’t have the time to debate the patriarchy. Young Michael wanted to paint bicycle skid marks on the pavement out front. Young Michael decidedly did not want to spend his days mixing the enclosed brownie mix, or combing through any of the 40 enclosed “Free! Betty Crocker coupons.” Young Michael wanted to throw the EZ Bake Oven through a window.

“Do you like it”? my mother asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said because I may have been outraged but I was outraged with decorum.

There is surely a lesson to be drawn here about parents’ expectations for their children and how we may nudge them in one direction or another, but kids will only be nudged so far. It’s something I learned with my own children. They be who they be. Nothing any well-meaning feminist moms do will change that.

Perhaps it should not have, but I’ve been surprised by my children their whole lives. They are not extensions of us. They are themselves and only themselves. Perhaps Mom thought that, as her “sensitive” child, I would be more receptive to such a present. Well, she was wrong.

That night, we all gathered around the kitchen table to unbox the EZ Bake. All of us sitting around, stirring powdery goo with water and inserting it into the oven door. We watched and waited as the lightbulb slowly baked our little cakes. Just because I hated the present doesn’t mean I’m going to lie to you – those fucking cakes were fucking delicious.

Even so, when we were done eating, the oven went back into its box and was disappeared into the back of a closet somewhere. I never saw it again. Perhaps it escaped and found refuge at the home of some more appreciative child than the one who received it first. We’ll never know. This Christmas, just remember: when you buy something for a loved one and they tell you they like it, they’re lying.