My teammate plucked a fashion doll from the sack. The form read “Kimmy age seven, Barbie.” Check.
Next, a football. “Reginald, ten, sports.” Check.
A pair of Iron Man pajamas. “Andy, eight, superheroes.” Check. A lump rose in my throat. I was holding an honest-to-goodness Christmas List.
A pair of Uggs. “Marnie, six, fuzzy boots.” When I checked them off the list, my hand shook. They were a nine on the Richter Scale of cuteness.
The children’s mother had penciled a note across the bottom of the form. “… working two jobs … husband just laid off. We won’t need this help next year, we’re grateful …”
Next year? I’ll be back. Wearing an elf hat.