A Christmas memory, straight from the Cabbage Patch

I can't think about my favorite Christmas present as a kid without thinking about one of the most tragic events of my childhood. The day my mom sat me down to explain that I wouldn't be the first person in our family to receive a Cabbage Patch Kid was the day my 8-year-old world came crashing down around me.

The Cabbage Patch Kid would instead go to the girl with whom I shared a room, my "mom" explained. I couldn't believe my traumatized ears. The girl who was four years my junior, and consequently four years less deserving of such a gift? The girl the rest of my family referred to as my little sister, but I'd come to know simply as the motivation for the Oppressed Middle Children Strike I'd secretly plotted for years? Devastation. Pure devastation.

I'm pretty sure my mom's little spiel started with something to the effect of, "You know your father and I love you very much, right?" Before she informed me Mari was getting a Cabbage Patch Kid for her birthday, I did know they loved me very much. After? Well, I couldn't be sure.

In my mom's defense, she couldn't get her hands on a Cabbage Patch Kid the Christmas before my sister's birthday. A nationwide Cabbage craze made for a lot of kids sending WTF letters to Santa Claus, dated Dec. 26. Still, it didn't make Mari's good fortune four months later easier to bear.

Any female who was alive but hadn't yet hit puberty in the early to mid-'80s, knows full well the pain such news could cause a third-grader. Cabbage Patch Kids weren't just dolls, dammit. They were our very own adopted daughters, sons, premature infants. And, they came with the paperwork that proved it. Never mind that their biological father, Xavier Roberts, tattooed each of their little butts before agreeing to give them up to a better home. And, so what if the whole born-in-a-vegetable-garden thing really confused the where-do-babies-come-from talk. We didn't care. We would give anything to become elementary school mothers.

After I wiped away my last tear, I did the most mature thing I could think of at the time. I asked to see the little bastard child my sister would soon be adopting. My mom obliged and even opened the box to put my future niece in my arms. Aside from the fact this thing had a bigger noggin than my own, it was the most beautiful yarn-haired baby I'd ever laid eyes on. Big brown eyes and a pair of dimples tugged at my 8-year-old maternal instincts.

Before I could swaddle Odetta Ariel, my mom yanked her out of my arms and reminded me Christmas wasn't that far away. Even though it was April, I acted like I'd never seen a calendar and watched to see where the courts, I mean my mom, took my beloved daughter, I mean niece.

In the two weeks before Mari's birthday, I would come home from school, surreptitiously take Odetta out of her plastic box and rock her to sleep. She was very distrustful and slept with her eyes wide open, but the developing bond was unmistakable. I'd sing her songs and play with her hair until the motivation for the Oppressed Middle Children Strike came home from preschool. Sometimes I'd even explain to little Odetta that mean people would be taking her away in a few days and putting her in the arms of a girl who was half my age and therefore unfit to be a mother. She'd just smile, never pointing out that putting her in a dark box every night probably made me unfit, too.

This was around the time a surrogate mother case became national news. The surrogate had a change of heart after giving birth and refused to make the final exchange. The law got involved and finally came to rip that baby from her arms one day, with police and paparazzi huddled around her house.

There's a lot of good that can come from a father who insists on having "The Today Show" on every morning before sending you off to school. But it might also be the reason you insist you know, as a grade-schooler, EXACTLY how a surrogate mother in Florida feels after watching your little sister get a Cabbage Patch Kid for her birthday.

After all the undercover time I'd spent with Odetta, the moment she was placed in another's arms felt like torture. Never one for drama, I yelled out, "This is so unfair!" instead of "Nobody loves me!" when the big reveal happened. While Mari gave her new daughter hugs and kisses, I finally made picket signs for that strike and called a few of my middle-child friends to get them onboard. Recruitment came easy. I think one of them was forced to watch her older sister unwrap a My Little Pony a couple of Christmases before.

The next eight months went by about as fast as labor contractions. But, soon enough I started a different after-school ritual. It involved sneaking off to the storage closet downstairs and staring at another little girl in another plastic box. Forget how creepy that sounds. And forget that I was spoiling my own Christmas Day surprise, she was the most beautiful plastic-headed baby I'd ever laid eyes on.

Sheila Rebecca had glasses, a pink binky and short curly blond hair. She made me love Odetta Ariel like a niece, not the baby the court system took away. She made me (temporarily) put away the Oppressed Middle Children picket signs. But, best of all, she made me a very happy 8-year-old mother.

Contact columnist Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477. Follow her on Twitter at @startswithanx.