Momwriters Contests

{All About MomWriters} {MomWriters Write}
{Special Events} {Projects} {Resources/Links}
{Contact Momwriters}

MomWriters Winter Contest 2001

Poetry

First Place: Regifted by Pamela Kock

Second Place: My Daughter Peed on Santa Claus by Susan Brannigan Rampp

Third Place: Six Children by Liz Palmer

Essay/Non-Fiction

First place: Simple Joys by Chris Sofge

Second Place: Bigger than a Bread Box by Mary Tyler (dej)

Third Place: Reminded by Snow by Traci Vandermark

Poetry

Regifted
by Pamela Kock

I bought a gift
For a dear friend
And wrapped it up with gold ribbon.

She opened it
And claimed delight
With the gift she'd just been given.

A few days later
I heard someone say
She'd passed it on again.

Re-gifted? Horrors!
It couldn't be!
I was mad. Upset. And then.

I met the one
Who'd received the gift
I'd carefully bought for another.

She didn't know,
So she confessed
She'd wrapped it up for her brother.

On Christmas Eve
He decided that
His girlfriend should receive it.

With shining eyes
She opened it up
And cried, "I don't believe it!"

"It's perfect!" she said.
And threw her arms
Around his neck, with tears.

"This is the best thing,"
She said, joyfully,
"I've gotten for Christmas in years!"

How could it be?
My perfect gift
I shopped for with such labor

Had ended up under
Another tree
In someone else's paper.

I soon realized
My aim was reached
For one gift did not end it.

My re-gifted gift
Had spread much more joy
Than I had ever intended!

Back to Top

Content Warning:
Ladies and Gentlemen, put down all drinks before reading this.
If you don't, don't hold me responsible for damaged electronics. krs

My Daughter Peed on Santa Claus
by Susan Brannigan Rampp

A day like any other
is how it started out
When we hit the mall we didn’t know it all
Would end in screams and shouts.

We went to visit Santa
The big, red-suited guy
How could we have guessed it would be a mess
And we’d have to flee and fly

Wellllllllllll…..
Chorus:
My daughter peed on Santa
Oh isn’t that a sight
When he Ho Ho Ho’d, she let it go
On his bright red suit that night
My daughter peed on Santa
Oh what were we to do
We said “Sorry” ­ He said “Let me be…
But I’d watch out if I were you.”
Now Santa keeps his list up
And checks it once or twice
You’re good or bad, happy or sad
And you’d get the gift that’s right
But Santa had put us now
At the top of his hit list
He’d see our names then would glare and flame
Banging desks with his two fists
We had to make it better
But what were we to do
We had a plan, hoped he’d understand
So we wouldn’t be oh so screwed
Cuzzzzz…..
Chorus:
My daughter peed on Santa
Oh isn’t that a sight
When he Ho Ho Ho’d, she let it go
On his bright red suit that night
My daughter peed on Santa
Oh what were we to do
We said “Sorry” ­ He said “Let me be…
But I’d watch out if I were you.”
I thought woman to woman
Would be the way to fight
I caught Mrs. Claus when she took a pause
From her shopping chores one night
I begged her just to help us
To plead our cause with might
She said “Well maybe…you just wait and see”
And she’d talk with him just right
Oh we waited and we waited
To see an all clear sign
So we’d feel okay and Christmas would stay
All relaxed and oh so fine
It was Christmas Eve at our house
And not a mouse in sight
The kids were snug in their beds
And we put out our house lights
I tried to sleep but I had
This awful sense of dread
Was he still mad, thinkin’ we were bad
So I paced around our bed
Then I heard some footsteps landing
On our rooftop so high
I took a peek and saw Santa sneak
With some presents down our pipe
So it seemed all was forgiven
And I smiled with great delight
Santa looked at me and with utter glee
Shouted Ho Ho Ho that night
But thennnnn…..
(New) Chorus:
His reindeer peed on our roof
Oh isn’t that a sight
They took off with glee when they had to flee
Then just liquified our house
I guess we had it coming
On Christmas Eve that night
But I know for sure my daughter will endure
Diapers for next year so tight
Sooo…
She’ll never pee on Santa
And keep his suit so bright
He can Ho Ho Ho with a smile and know
Everything will be alright. Everything will be alright!!!!!!!

Back to Top

Six Children by Liz Palmer

Six children at Christmas
Jody's pulled down the Christmas tree
Sam's into a cupboard or two
Freddie is fighting with Susan
And Gillian's stuck in the loo.
The carpet is looking delicious.
It should be. It's covered in cream.
At least Baby Timothy's sleeping.
Oh, bugger! He's starting to scream.
Six children, but Santa, who's counting.
If they went - I suppose they'd be missed.
But Santa, I would give them all to you.
For just one child off your "good" list.

Back to Top

Essay/Non-Fiction

Simple Joys by Chris Sofge

Chatting on the phone or sipping tea together at the kitchen table, we are comfortable together, best friends. It wasn't always so. Four years age difference with a brother between us was just enough to keep my sister and me at a distance growing up. But a special Christmas twenty years ago changed all that.

I was 22 and in grad school in California. My sister, a rebellious 18-year old, lived with our parents in Massachusetts. Things got hot. My father threatened to break the legs of a certain boyfriend and my sister threatened to run off and live with said boyfriend. As peacemaker in the family, I was talking to both of them, trying to find some way to cool things down. I proposed that my parents send Bonnie to visit me for a couple weeks, to give everyone a chance to think things over. My parents did me one better. They sent her to California on a one-way ticket.

And so it began.

We had no money. Two of us scraping by on my grad student stipend and a part-time fast food job she managed to get. We were wary at first, she wondering if I would try to be her "mother" and tell her what to do and whom to see; I, assuming this would be a huge burden in my already stressed life. Then, slowly, we began to talk.

Bonnie added a spark of hilarity to my hectic life. When the dog next door gave birth to puppies, she begged to have one, bringing me one after another, cradled in her hands, saying, "Isn't she just SOOO cute?" or another time, anxiously, "I think the guy next door is giving the puppies away to bad people. We better try to save at least one." Shaking my head in disbelief, I became the owner of a tiny ball of fur, who peed on the rug and chewed up all our socks and underwear. This was madness: I was a grad student, I might have to move at a moment's notice, It was hard to find a dog-friendly apartment, I had no time to house-train a puppy. I was never happier.

Our Christmas celebration was going to be Spartan by our childhood standards, and in sunny, warm California, there wasn't even frosty weather or snow to "put us in the mood." But Bonnie was undaunted and her enthusiasm was infectious. We found a scraggly $5 Christmas tree that had only one side (the back was flat). It fit just perfectly up against the picture window in our tiny living room. Our decorations were paper chains, tinfoil stars and snowflakes. Simple, perhaps, but to us, simply beautiful.

We couldn't afford much, but wanted to have lots of packages to open. So, unbeknownst to one another, we bought each other chocolate in all shapes and sizes, wrapped each piece carefully and placed it under the tree. Our tree was looking good! Well, at least until the puppy smelled the chocolate. We came home one day to all our pretty wrappings strewn about the living room and the chocolate gone. After a quick trip to the vet (that we could ill afford) to make sure the culprit was going to be all right, we cleaned up the mess and laughed. We still had a week to go, so we redoubled our efforts to find and make small, inexpensive gifts for each other (this time keeping all food items high out of puppy's reach!)

Christmas morning dawned clear and warm. We were as excited as children. We had splurged and bought ourselves a turkey to fix for dinner. We tuned our radio to a station playing Christmas music. And we ran out in pajamas and slippers to tear open our gifts. Giggling as we unwrapped our treasures of socks and chocolate, decks of cards and ballpoint pens, we were filled with Christmas spirit and happy to be together. We sang Christmas carols, loudly and off-key and chased the puppy through piles of Christmas paper.

As dinner smells began to drift through the house, we called our parents to wish them a merry Christmas. Except, there was no merry Christmas at their house. Our mother, always stressed during the pre-Christmas rush, was in deep depression because "her girls" weren't home. A little shocked, we listened sympathetically and refrained from expounding on what a wonderful day we were having.

After hanging up the phone, Bonnie and I talked seriously about how happy we were to be together on Christmas, how important it was to delight in the joys in your life, whatever they were, and how sad it was that our parents couldn't see that.

Bonnie and I lived together for a year. As sisters do, we sometimes fought and squabbled, but we reveled in our new-found friendship. Twenty years later, and thousands of miles apart, she is still the friend I talk to most frequently. She is still the one I turn to when I am at my lowest point and with whom I share my greatest triumphs.

The Christmas we spent together taught me the importance of seeking joy, instead of waiting for it to come to me, especially during the holidays. This has helped me to make every Christmas special. The years I spent Christmas alone, I put up a tree, made myself a special dinner, wrapped and then opened my own gifts, and focused quietly and peacefully on the joy. And, now, as a mother, when the hectic activities of the season and high expectations of others threaten to overwhelm my goodwill and Christmas cheer, I think back to that crazy, simple Christmas with my sister and smile and regain some peace.

A gift from my sister.

The joy of Christmas.

Back to Top

Bigger than a Bread Box by Mary Tyler (dej)

"It's bigger than a bread box!" my Dad said with glee. He wouldn't tell me what it was. Now when you're six, the big present at Christmas is the single most important thing in the world. I can't remember what I wanted that year... only that it was definitely "bigger than a bread box." I have to admit, I checked the bread box religiously to see if there was something in my child's mind that could fit in there that I might want. In fact, I checked every oubliette in our 200 year old colonial. I checked the pantry (in the bread box), the linen closet and under the basement stairs, the closet in my parents' room and the one behind the fireplace. I even went up to the cold, scary attic. There was nothing new except a funny shaped, olive-pastel plastic box.

I wasn't interested.

On Christmas Eve, I sat with my mother's scrap bag, a pair of sharp scissors and a paste pot. I carefully cut, layered and pasted scraps of fabric until a scene took shape. It was a "manger scene." There
was an inn, a stable, wise men and donkeys, a Mama, a baby and a star. I had to scramble out of the way when my Dad arrived with the tree. It was huge, as big as he was, and green and fragrant. Dad set
it up and my brother and I decorated it. My brother was 10 and bossy, but even so, my artistic eye was the director of decorating. We strung lights and tinsel, beads and balls until my idea of beauty was satisfied. It was very late. We put carrots and juice out for Santa and went to bed.

Christmas morning dawned, dazzling sunlight against sparkling snow, for 1976 was a snowy year. It was a perfect Christmas morning. Santa had come. There was a seeming multitude of brightly colored boxes
under the tree. It did not make any difference that the Santa that came to my house was a bit less well off than the Santa that came to other kids' houses. My brother and I tore into the presents, exclaiming over each small item with the glee of youth. There was nothing bigger than a bread box.

Finally, my father who had a Barnum-ish showmanship about him, pulled aside a branch of the Christmas tree which had completely obscured another wrapped parcel. It was indeed as big as a bread box, bigger even. I couldn't even imagine what might be in such an odd shaped box. I ripped the paper and beneath it, I found an ugly, olive-pastel plastic case.

It wasn't looking good.

I lifted the plastic cover off. Underneath was a plain olive-enamel machine with a straight stitch foot. I rolled my eyes. This was not a good Christmas Present. This was a sewing machine! It was bad enough
that I had to wear home made clothes, now they were going to try to make me sew them. I was a tomboy. I had no intention of being girly--of sewing. The venom with which I thought those words exceeded the distaste that I felt for liver. I was even more appalled, because I knew where the machine had come from. My dad was a repairman for Sears. He made house calls to fix washers, dryers, air conditioners and sewing machines. Often if it was too expensive to be worth fixing, the owner would give him the sewing machine and go buy a new one for herself. I had been given junk for Christmas! It was older than I was. I stomped off in one direction, and my Dad, hurt, went another.

I didn't touch the machine unless forced, until I was about 10. Then scraps and paste gave way to needles, thread and bigger scraps. I used my eyes and some measuring tape and made unpatterned clothes for a rag doll which had been my mother's. The first attempts were undoubtably misshapen, but serviceable. The doll did not complain. She did not care if the seams were straight. She had not had new clothes since my mother was a little girl and she appreciated the custom designs.

Today, nearly 23 years after that snowy Christmas, though not one fabric and paste creche has survived, I have come to terms with being a girl. The old, olive machine is long gone. Over the years, my husband and I have picked up a number of free or cheap sewing machines. We fix them and then donate them to charity or sell them. In my sewing room, my first new machine ever, a serger, resides next to an 18 yr old Kenmore that Mom gave me when it was 13. Each of them stands in awe of the gem of my collection, a Bernina 850, which we pulled from a junk pile and had redone.

It's older than I am.

I have greatly enjoyed sewing clothes for my newest "doll." She never complains if my seams are not completely straight and she always appreciates the custom design. It's not home made, she assures me in her baby way, it's hand made. Now, I have to be on the lookout for an ugly, old straight stitch that's bigger than a breadbox. She's nearly six.

Thanks, Dad.

Back to Top

Reminded by Snow by Traci Vandermark

"Mommy, you've got to come see this".

Over and over these words shrieked from my four year old. Hurriedly I dropped the presents I just brought home and, with heart pounding, ran to her side to see what disaster had struck. She stood with her back to me, looking out the window.

"See, Mommy? It's snowing."

Snowing? Overcoming the urge to scold her for causing the sudden rise in my blood pressure, I turned to go back to the pressing matters at hand... like presents to wrap and Christmas dinner to plan. Halfway up the stairs I heard her voice again, but much softer this time.

"Isn't it beautiful, Mommy?"

I returned to the window, and taking a deep breath I looked into the blur of white on the other side of the glass. The flakes were huge and falling softly as giant cotton balls... and piling up quickly!

As I looked at them they had a calming and comforting effect. They took me back to my own childhood and I felt like it had only been yesterday when I was full of my daughter's excitement over snow right before Christmas. Yes, the lights were on the tree, stockings were hung, the Santas were on the mantle, cookies were in the oven, presents were about to be wrapped and the joy and warmth of the season was... in my heart?

No, it was supposed to be in my heart, but nothing could get to my heart because my skin was thick with tension and my veins were boiling with the blood of anxiety. The peacefulness of the moment lasted only a split second, as my nature of busyness and worry took over. I saw the worry over loved ones out on the roads getting stranded somewhere. I saw the potential for my husband to be home late on a night when I
really needed his help. Well, he made it home, presents were wrapped, Christmas dinner was perfect, presents were unwrapped, and the snow stayed.

Despite my inability to enjoy the day due to self-inflicted pressure, I knew it was a success. Family and friends were having a wonderful time enjoying one another's company and my cooking. I continued to make sure the setting was perfect. I saw to it the candles stayed lit, potpourri continued simmering and the dog stayed out of
everyone's way. Half listening to conversations going on around me I heard my dad say "Yep... don't think I'll make it 'til next Christmas."

I almost chuckled, because in spite of his struggles with many ailments, from emphysema to skin cancer, he seemed to be a figure that would always be with us. Plus, he made the same comment every year, and he always made it through.

So, the holidays came, were enjoyed, and went. Once again, the snow stayed. It stayed through a long, cold winter... until early April. We had a heat wave right after spring came. The snow left... and so did Daddy. This time he was right.

As I said my good-byes to him I wondered, "Where did the time go? This is just too soon". I had 38 years of my life to love and enjoy him, but there were so many
conversations we hadn't had yet, so many stories and jokes of his I hadn't heard. So many holidays I thought were left to be able to sit in his company. But time went fast. Like the snow, I always assumed it would be there so I could enjoy it later, because for now, there was just too much to do.

The holidays are fast approaching once again. I am making my gift list, planning my menu, and addressing my cards. I halfheartedly look forward to them, thinking of Daddy who will not be here. I think of the perfect present for him that I won't be buying, the conversations that I won't overhear. And I am reminded of all of this right now, because
snow is falling.

I have dropped everything I was doing to sit by the window. I watch it pile up. I see birds sifting through it for seeds off the ground, and I see different patterns in each flake as they land, and then melt, on my warm window pane. I see my daughter out in the yard playing with the dog. She is a year older. A year has passed in her life and I don't remember very much of it. I remember making sure she took the perfect snack to school, had just the right presents for birthday parties, but I don't know what friend made her laugh the most, or how she felt on the last day of class.

When I think of my own childhood Christmases I remember one in particular. I remember Daddy holding me up to the window one Christmas Eve and showing me the
Christmas star. It must have made quite an impression on my six year old heart, because I remember nothing else about that Christmas. I'm sure that what my daughter will remember will not be whether she gets everything on her Christmas list, but whether I took the time to stand by the window and watch the snow fall with her. With all of my busyness I have lost out on making some wonderful memories for her.

I remember last Christmas going well and everyone enjoying themselves. But I don't remember how the presents were wrapped, or how the house was decorated or even what I served for dinner. And you know what? Neither does anyone else. But I bet they remember enjoying their last Christmas with Daddy, while I found it necessary to be busy with "other things".

I've discovered how to take time to watch the snow, to see what my daughter sees, which is lots of laughter, sleigh rides, hot chocolate and time. Time in the winter ahead to be with people she loves and that love her. I will continue to watch the snow this holiday season. I will notice every twinkling light on neighbors' houses as I drive by at night. I will close my eyes and breathe in the smell of turkey and pies in the oven. I will notice the scent of my mother's perfume and pay attention to the way my brother laughs, and how my sisters love telling old childhood stories. I will stop what I am doing, and I will listen.

I will listen, and smell, and watch and feel the preciousness of every moment with the people I love. I will savor every minute I have in their presence. If my pie burns? So what. If my turkey is dry? Who will remember that a year from now?

The snow and Daddy have taught me many things. Although the snow will continue to return, some of those I love will not. What I vow to do this year is to put away my busyness, and hold on to every precious moment that I find myself in the company of those I cherish. I will no longer let time, like the snow, melt away without enjoying every second of it.

Back to Top