The Plight Of The December Baby: Resolved?

I have had the misfortune of being born in early December, and as such, like all December (and, presumably, some November/January) babies whose families celebrate a certain midwinter festival, I have known that greatest of scourges: the joint birthday/Christmas present.

Every year, my September-born sibling would come downstairs to find that every one of our relatives had sent them a gift.

Every year, I would come downstairs on my birthday to find that the only people to get me a gift were my parents, my sibling, and one set of grandparents, with the rest of the presents only showing up when Father Christmas did.

And every year, I complained to my parents about this, only to be rebuffed with, “It’s the thought that counts,” and other such platitudes. Clearly, I was on my own when it came to fixing this, which, as a highly socially-anxious child, wasn’t my ideal situation. Still, I was a CREATIVE socially-anxious child, and by golly was I going to find a way to… trick my parents into fixing it for me.

On the first of November of the year I turned thirteen, I walked into the kitchen at breakfast time, blew a long note on a bugle we had lying around the house, and unfurled a scroll I’d made from wallpaper scraps and two rolling pins.

Me: “Hear ye, hear ye! By proclamation of Prince [My Name] The First, the holiday known as Christmas, and anything to do with it, may not appear in this house prior to [the day after my birthday], on penalty of death. Furthermore, any item celebrating the prince’s birthday may not arrive at the house after said day, under the same penalty.”

Mum: “Is this a joke or are you being serious?”

Me: “Serious. Except for mince pies — they can show up earlier.”

As the date chosen was still well before we normally decorated the house for Christmas, my parents mostly shrugged this off as me wanting to make a joke. However, just as I had planned, every relative who phoned for the next month got regaled with this funny story about my birthday/Christmas border.

When I came down on my birthday that year, a good 45% of my relatives had gotten me a gift, many with tongue-in-cheek references to avoiding the death penalty. Even better, come Christmas, most of those relatives sent another gift, though these were mostly smaller and obviously last-minute purchases.

The next year, it happened again, no doubt aided by the fact that I finally had a reason to put effort into my thank-you letters, even if that reason was Pavlovian training. (I seem to remember taping a sweet next to the “and” in “thank you for my birthday AND Christmas presents.”) Some relatives did backslide, but most of the closer ones have kept up the split to this day.

And that’s the story of how I saved my birthday from Christmas via psychological warfare.