How many times have you heard, said, or simply just thought that as we close in on Christmas?

Take a walk around any shop or mall; a quick glimpse at the prices is enough to send the words screaming from your lips. The latest clothes, games, DVD's, it all adds up and the thought of those disappointed looks on Christmas morning is too much to bare.

Big gifts, even bigger credit card debts, all to stop that "look" for one morning of the year.

I cannot remember a time when things weren't "tight" growing up, but for some reason my memories of those years at home are filled with a love, and sense of peace that makes no sense in this "buy now/pay late" era.

So where did this expectation of wonder come from, if not from expensive gifts, lavish parties, and extravagant decorations?

When I was a child, we'd start the build up for Christmas on the final day of school which in England is between the 19th and 21st of December. My brother and I would come home from our last day of the year, arms filled with decorations made in class, pictures and cards, to find the house bedecked. A small tree in one corner, Christmas cards hung on bright string from the walls, and our Mum waiting for the new decorations.

Looking back, a good fifty percent of the decorations on the tree and around that small living room, were ones my brother and I made in school. Egg cartons and tinsel turned into baubles. Cut out trees adorned with glitter and white glue. Boxes swathed with cheap wrapping paper. A Santa Claus made from toilet paper, cotton wool and colored felt. The new decorations would be hung in a place of pride, the wonder and love in my Mum's eyes better than any chocolate.

Strange, I never felt cheated by the lack of bright lights or silver beads.

Those last few days leading up to the big event would be a flurry of activity in the kitchen. Mince pies by the dozen, with Mum needing my "special" touch for the pastry. Bowls licked clean from cakes, and cookies, to be honest, I think we ate more mix than ended up being baked. Then, on Christmas Eve, the guest of honor, Tommy would appear.

Tommy the Turkey, rescued from his place in the deep freeze, to sit and defrost in the kitchen. The excitement when he would be unwrapped then covered with a protective mesh dome. His appearance marked the start of the real countdown, from days to mere hours.

Last minute baking, final cards being hung, that mad dash around the shops for the wish list gifts. Every year there would be a wish list, items asked for that no one could afford. New cars, diamond's, jewelry, holidays to exotic places. There was no way we could afford them, but the imagination of a child can be a wonderful thing if it is encouraged. And ours was.

A new car became a new toy model car.

Diamond's, a diamond shaped chocolate.

Jewelry might be a plastic ring.

That exotic holiday, a scrap book full of pictures, drawings, and short stories.

All combined with the promise of "one day."

Morning would find my brother and I waiting at the top of the stairs, trying to coax our parents out of bed. Going down the stairs before them on Christmas morning was against the rules. Our Dad had to check to make sure Santa and his elves had left, or else we might not have anything waiting for us.

Each and every year he would creep down the stairs ahead of us, whilst we waited with our Mum for the all clear. The living room door would be cracked slowly open and I swear some years I could hear bells fading away.

We'd run down those stairs at break neck speed once the all clear had been given, to burst into the living room, hearts pounding in our ears.

Shadowy lumps would sit below the tree, and in the low glow of the gas fire we'd see the now empty glass of milk, a stub of a carrot, and crumbs from the cookies scattered across the plate.

He had been.

It's taken me many years to finally understand everything my parents gave me each Christmas. It's cannot be measured in terms of wealth, or physical gifts. The love they gave was given every day, so what is it they gave us that time of year.

They gifted us with the ability to dream, wrapped it in hope and sent it on with encouragement.

I'm thirty two years old now, with children of my own. This, as many other years will be a "tight" one for us, but I now know what gift I wish to give them.

Terri Pray is an English woman living in Minnesota. Her writing covers a wide range of genres from non fiction to fiction, flash through to novel lengths. http://www.terripray.com/

Contact her at hischani@charter.net