The Christmas of Chexter the Nosy Bear

Nearly everyone has a favorite Christmas memory from childhood.  To me, the best stories boast dramatic accounts of that one special present that keeps you awake at night for weeks in eager anticipation of discovering its magic appearance under the tree on Christmas morning.  When I was about 7 years old, all I wanted for Christmas was Chexter the Nosy Bear.  There were about 15 or 20 different, adorable Nosy Bears produced in the 1980's, ones like Gumlet, Dizzy, and a cutie with popcorn in his nose.  But Chexter was #1 in my heart...and #1 on my Christmas list.  His soft blue fur complimented a deliciously pink tummy, which, when squeezed, caused a glorious balloon bubble in his nose globe to inflate against a pink-and-blue checker board.  He was the most endearing, beautiful bear I had ever seen, and I simply had to have him.  And I needed to make sure my parents understood my desperation.


So I began an all-out campaign to bring Chexter the Nosy Bear home.  I started with my Christmas list, which read something like this:  "1)  Chexter the Nosy Bear.  I don't care if I don't get anything else for Christmas, as long as I get Chexter the Nosy Bear.  2)  Chexter the Nosy Bear.  3)  Please get me Chexter the Nosy Bear for Christmas."  I'm sure the spelling was slightly substandard, but you get the idea.  I'm sure my parents got the idea, too, but I wasn't going to risk any possible glitch in their memory.  So every time we visited K.B. Toys or Children's Palace, I quickly located Chexter, planted myself firmly in front of him, squeezed his tummy at least 23 times and smiled the biggest, most persuasive smile any child performing feats of angelic awe at Christmastime could muster.  Around the house, I constantly sang the Nosy Bears' "Nose of Fun" theme song, and when the commercial appeared on television, I astutely pointed out Chexter to anyone nearby (usually my poor mother).  As if that wasn't enough, my schoolwork was filled with doodles, topical sentences, and any other nuance I could use to slip in another reminder of my ultimate Christmas wish.  Being homeschooled with my mom as my teacher proved especially advantageous in the onslaught of Chexter paraphernalia.  Forget Santa, I knew who worked Christmas magic in the Moffitt house.


And so this went on for weeks, until finally--Christmas Day arrived.  My family went through our traditional Christmas morning routine of cinnamon rolls, self-timed family photos in front of the wrapped gifts, and reading the Christmas story from Luke.  Finally, it was time to open our presents.  As was also our tradition, each person opened one gift at a time, doling out the typical thank-you's, hugs, etc. before giving someone else a turn to open a gift.  This went on for a few hours, but still no Chexter.  Oh, I received some lovely presents:  Legos, Little People, and even a super cool Pound Puppies sleeping bag.  But alas, no Chexter.  Soon, the number of gifts under the tree dwindled, and from the looks of their sizes, Chexter was not going to be joining our family that morning.  I decided to keep my chin up and make the best of things as my dad handed me the very last gift, my final shot at unwrapping a Christmas miracle.  I immediately opened it only to discover--underwear.  Rats.  Fruit of the Loom foils yet another little girl's Christmas dream.


As I sat in disappointment, the usual pause between our exchange of presents and the trek downstairs to empty our Christmas stockings lasted several moments longer than normal.  Finally, Mom coughed and Dad pulled out a suspiciously lumpy gift from behind the sofa.  Dare I hope it was for me?  I held my breath as Dad mysteriously smiled and read, "To Annie, From Daddy and Mommy". 


YESSSSS!!!  This was Chexter!  It just had to be!  I ripped that puppy open with the gusto of a madwoman.  And finally....there he was, in all his blue and pink glory--the most beautiful Nosy Bear in the whole wide world.  This was Chexter, my new best friend.

I honestly don't remember exactly what about him appealed to me so strongly that I wanted nothing else for Christmas.  And I couldn't tell you why Chexter triumphed over Gumlet, Dizzy, or the cutie with popcorn in his nose.  But I do remember the innocent suspense of wanting something so badly and the pure joy of having that wish come true.


Now that I have two children of my own, I finally understand my parents' perspective on the story.  Will wants a frog Pillow Pet for Christmas this year.  Every time the commercial sings on TV, he astutely points out his favorite one.  And every time we look at the store ads on Sunday, he always locates the Pillow Pets...and makes sure we know it.  I'm nearly positive if he could read and write, he would be doodling and writing sentences about Pillow Pets in his schoolwork.  This is the first Christmas he has ever wished for that "one special present", and it has returned my thoughts to Chexter.  As I read Christian articles and comments online about commercialism detracting from the celebration of Jesus' birth, I can't help but wonder if my parents debated the risk of caving to Christmas commercialism in America and worried about jeopardizing our focus on Jesus.  However, when I think back to The Christmas of Chexter the Nosy Bear, I now recognize the secretive joy my parents shared when building a little girl's suspense towards this ultimate gift.  And though I was too young at the time to metaphorically parallel this with God's Ultimate Gift to earth, I can certainly make the connection as an adult.  So maybe my parents' gift to me was more than a $20 bear one Christmas morning.  Maybe the memory of fulfilling this little girl's dream is the reason a $20, fuzzy frog Pillow Pet currently sits wrapped upstairs in my closet.  Maybe I want to hide that box behind the sofa and experience the joy of watching my son's wishes come true.  And while I know he won't fully realize the connection between Christmas gifts and Jesus' birth until he is older, maybe that is perfectly ok.  Because ultimately, I believe in making Christmas magic for my children.  Because I believe in the power of Christmas memories.

Blogging on a Blood Sugar Crash

I am ready to be done nursing PJ.  I'm simply not one of those moms who can't bear ending this "precious bonding experience".  God made cows for good reason, and dairy farmers are not out to poison our children.  Some might label me as a lazy, "early quitter"....one of "those mothers" who doesn't diligently Google Dr. Sears to understand the possibility of allergies, bowel stress, or any other calamity which might strike my child from weaning him two months prior to the hallowed 12-Month Mark (that milestone in life when cow's milk magically transubstantiates into the nourishing beverage of choice).  However, nursing is not so much of an "inconvenience" to me as it is a health hazard.  If I don't eat something substantial every two hours, my blood sugar crashes--hard.  Breastfeeding books flabbergast me with their suggestions of stocking your nursing station with "healthy snacks", i.e. whole wheat crackers.  Yes-- crackers.  Come off it, La Leche League, are you serious?!  Plant my glider by a fridge full of burritos, sister, and I'll show you a well-stocked nursing station.  "Grazing" does nothing except spur me on towards greener pastures:  beef and bacon.  If you have ever viewed footage of a lion enjoying his prey, you have witnessed a tender moment in the life of this nursing mommy.  And, unfortunately, if said lion hunts in the midst of famine, you have just glimpsed a day at our house prior to a grocery run.  Such is the life of a nursing mother with a ridiculously high metabolism.  Even Will's play food starts to look yummy if you add a tad of salt.  So there you have it--I am switching my son to whole milk for the good of the entire family...and tonight I'm buying more groceries.