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Christina M. Currie

Christina M. Currie's Touch of Spice column appears Fridays in the Craig Daily Press. E-mail her at director@craig-chamber.com

Christmas is coming. There's no way that fact is sneaking up on anybody. I mean, please, I had to drag my girls away from the bedecked and bedazzling pine trees to reach the Halloween costumes.

If the calendar weren't so clear, retailers definitely would let us know when 'tis the season.

Everyone's feeling it. My sister's texting daily, asking for Christmas lists and clothing sizes. Seriously, who's that on top of things?

So, I asked my children what they wanted.

Eight-year-old Katie wants a long dress that touches the ground. Seven-year-old Nikki wants a helicopter with blue eyes and a horse.

That's all they could come up with.

It didn't help my sister at all.

And frankly, it didn't help me either.

I was wracking my brain trying to get as ahead of the game, as Aunt Cathy is.

And I was getting nowhere.

Until the great big book of toys arrived.

I saw that book as a life saver. Or at least my Christmas saver.

I gave Katie a pen and my blessing.

She was deliberate and methodical. In the end, my list of one turned into a list of about 10 things. Very workable.

Nikki's list went from two to 200. She circled everything - even the race tracks and the matchbox cars. And she didn't forget her helicopter with glowing eyes.

Then, she spent the next two nights (I'm going to count it as homework) printing out a list of the items she'd circled. I've explained carefully, but she's just not grasping the concept of prioritizing.

Or so I thought.

Then, something happened.

They were gifted a box containing a myriad of sea shells and rocks.

Their excitement over that simple gift was more than I've seen on any Christmas morning. Pure joy as they inspected, rationed out and then traded their horde.

Katie tucked hers into a Ziploc bag and then placed them in her purse for further safe keeping.

Later that night, from the quiet of my bedroom, I thought I heard children laughing.

The television.

But there it was again.

And again.

Because it was long after their bedtime, I was sure it wasn't my two angels, but I checked anyway.

It's true, neither of my girls was laughing.

Instead, I found Katie sobbing hysterically. She could hardly catch her breath.

"The dog," she hiccupped, "he took something outside, and it was very special to me."

I'd never seen her so distraught, and this is my drama queen.

"He," sob, "took my shells!"

My relief was instant. Until then, I couldn't imagine what had brought on such heartache.

Her relief was instant, too, when I told her there wasn't a single thing the dog's little puppy teeth could do to her rocks.

There isn't one thing that she circled in that magazine that would evoke such emotion from her if it were destroyed.

Not one thing.

I think I'm wrong. My girls might understand a little bit more about priorities than I give them credit for.

But I'm still quite sure that I'll be shelling out for Christmas presents anyway.