All I Want for Christmas is….

Whenever the Yuletide season begins, memories of a special Christmas come rushing into my mind.

It was the late 70’s and I was an impish, rambunctious and ravishingly cute second grader. Youngest in a brood of five and pampered by doting aunts, I was used to having my way most of the time. Although we were not rich, my parents ensured that we had a comfortable home and that we grew up with all that is essential, plus the occasional indulgences that a youngster would require. In that age, mine were Matchbox and Tonka model cars, Lego bricks, a Crayola set with all available colors, and loads of marbles. I was even persuasive enough (makulit, in other words) to convince my mother to buy me a sleek lunch box, even though I ate my lunch at home (we lived right across the school gate, and it was the 70’s after all).

But one thing I didn’t have at the time, which I really really craved for, was a pair of long pants. You see, my parents thought my legs were cute, and so whenever they bought me new clothes, it would always include a pair of shorts, never trousers. New polo shirt for a school program, new barong Tagalog for Recognition Day, new Boy Scouts v-necked top – all of them came with short pants. Even my first communion gala uniform included a pair of white shorts starched so stiff it could stand on its own.

I had a gargantuan problem: my parents thought my legs were cute.

And so a few days before Christmas, I poured my heart out to old St. Nick as I wrote him my annual request letter. I promised him that I would be a good boy – would stop complaining when asked to feed the dogs and take out the trash, would sweep the yard without being asked, and would cheerfully run errands for my sisters without complaining – if I were to get my first pair of long pants in time for the Christmas morning Holy Mass.

As always, I entrusted the letter to my mother and asked her to send it to Santa the fastest possible way. I had observed that whenever I did that, somehow the information reached Santa’s ears and I got what I asked or something that approximated it.

The morning of December 24th, I woke up to find a neatly wrapped present at my bedside. It had a note from Santa reminding me to do as I promised and to let my mother know if his present did fit me. It was almost anti-climactic when I tore open the wrapper, but what a joy it was to have received my very first trousers in all its bell-bottomed, double-knit glory. Hallelujah!

When I excitedly put my new trousers on, a problem instantly became apparent – the legs were too long by about two inches. But that didn’t dampen my spirit, it was nothing a fast alteration job could not fix. I excitedly ran to my favorite aunt next door who happened to be the best seamstress in our side of town. I asked her to reduce the trousers’ length by two inches. Sorry dear, she said, she’s up to her neck with rush jobs and could not spare the time. Undaunted, I hastened back home to ask my mother to be the one to fix it. But with all the preparations for the noche buena and a thousand other things to do, she shooed me away and curtly said she’d do it later. Feeling a creeping sense of desperation, I sought my sister’s help, explaining that she only needed to cut two inches off my trouser legs and they will be fine. She said it was not as simple as I thought it would be, and that she would deal with it later.

Weak with anguish, dispirited by disappointment, and feeling terribly let down, I lay down on my bed sulking. I refused to join the family for lunch, even shed a few tears I believe, and eventually fell asleep clutching my precious trousers as I did.

It was then that my dear aunt had a change of heart. She paused from her rush jobs long enough to fetch my pants and cut away the offending three inches of fabric. She then proceeded to sew the edges professionally such that nobody would notice the alteration that was done. She folded the trousers and placed it on my bed as I slept.

Soon after, my mother came and took my trousers. Knowing how much the pair of pants meant to me, she felt guilty that she did not prioritize me and proceeded to snip away three inches from each leg. She followed it with her signature whip stitch and proceeded to iron the hems such that the alteration was not obvious. Returning the pants on my bed, she happily went back to the kitchen and her preparations.

After my mother was done, my sister came through as she promised. Swiftly and with the skill learned from hours of Home Economics classes, she reduced my trousers’ legs by two inches and fixed the hem in a manner that would give her teachers immense pride. Placing the finished product on my bed, she swore to have been the first to sense that something had gone horribly wrong.

So there I was on Christmas morning, looking at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a cute boy with an impish smile wearing an immaculate white shirt, crimson suspenders, woolen socks, shiny leather shoes, and a pair of pants too short to be called trousers and too long to be called shorts.

But the smile never left my face. After all, I was wearing something much more than the usual short pants – an upgrade indeed. Soon enough, I thought, I’d get what I want. It might take until the next Christmas, but I was getting there.

(An excerpt from the original article which appeared in the December 1994 issue of Publics, PNB’s corporate magazine.)