It's snowing again! We're supposed to get a foot or more. *starts singing "White Christmas"*

I was going to wait until it was actually Christmas to blog this, but I keep forgetting what that thing is I was going to blog about, so I'd better do it now.

The Saga of the White Cat in the Stocking

Mom is an excellent stocking stuffer. She thinks of things to put in there that would never have occurred to me in a million years -- cute things, useful things, tasty things, funny things, all centered on the personality of the person she loves. She'd whup Santa hollow, and since I never really did believe in Santa, my faith has always been in her.

This calls for a small digression. It may say something not very nice about my personality, but I never believed in Santa mainly because I felt he was irrelevant to the holiday. The point of the whole story of Santa bringing gifts was that I ended up with gifts. And if the tag said "to Lisa, from Santa" in my mother's handwriting, well -- I'm not just another pretty face, you know. But I was cool with it. Because hey, I got presents. I am an odd mix of skepticism and credulity. End of digression.

So anyway, I always knew it was Mom stuffing my stocking, and I was happy because she was good at it. And I knew she always put thought into it, so that everything I pulled out of the stocking on Christmas morning was endued with a special meaning. And some of the things I knew may have had some meaning to her, even if they didn't to me.

One year I found a small figurine of a white kitten with a Santa hat on. It was cute, and I smiled at it. But it wasn't until a few years later that I realized that I was getting something of the sort every year. A small stuffed animal; a keychain; a ceramic toiletries holder; a puzzle: all of them depicting a white cat.

It was yet another year or so before I got up the nerve to ask Mom about it. But one year, after the wrappings had been disposed of and the bows saved for another year, I said: "Mom, what the heck is up with the white cats in my stocking? Every year, a white cat. What does that mean?" (Though perhaps it didn't sound quite so much like Yiddish when I said it.)

Mom looked at me in shock. "I thought you knew. Don't you remember wanting a white cat in your stocking when you were little?"

I didn't.

"Yeah," Mom said. "There was this TV commercial, and a little girl found a white kitten in her stocking on Christmas morning, and you said you wanted that too."

I was starting to recall dimly that one year I had been inspired by a commercial to say that I liked the idea of seeing something living and cute in my stocking on Christmas morning; but I never really expected it to happen.

Mom was embarrassed; and I felt this confusing blend of exasperation and pity and affection. Exasperation, because I didn't know whether Mom's little yearly prank was too cryptic or I was too stupid. Pity, because Mom had put a lot of herself into this tradition of hers thinking I was with her on the other end. And affection, because Mom's occasionally-misguided thoughtfulness has always been one of the mainstays of my life.

Mom asked if I wanted her to stop the tradition. I said, "No, you might as well keep going." So she did. And a few years ago I finally said to her, "Mom, I'm really coming to have an affection for this little prank of yours." She laughed ruefully and said, "Good."

So now I am picking over the presents I was sent from home and wondering which one contains the white cat reference. I think I'll be sorely disappointed if I don't get it this year.

It's still snowing. Merry Christmas, Mom.