Starting OverChapter 13 A Very Special Christmas
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One Special Christmas free porn video
One Special Christmas
By Heather St. Claire
Of all the special times of the year, without a doubt, I
love Christmas best. I look forward to it with all my heart every
year, because of all the wonderful things it represents... love
and family and the spirit of giving, and most important of all,
celebration of the birth of our Savior.
Every Christmas is special, of course, but I think I'm
really loving the ones I'm living through right now. I'm Meredith
Marshall, a 32-year-old homemaker. I've been married for the past
decade to Doug, a successful Realtor. We have two wonderful
daughters. Connie is eight, pretty in a delicate sort of way,
with long blonde curls. Doug says he imagines she's the image of
me at that age. If only he knew...
Our younger daughter, Kelly, is six, has her auburn hair in
a pixie cut, and is very outgoing and athletic. Just like her
father.
I love my girls; I love my husband; I love my home; I love
being a woman. I know this is the role I was born to fulfill;
creating a warm, nurturing, safe haven where my husband can rest
and gather strength for his battles in the outside world, and
where my daughters can count on love, guidance and support as
they negotiate the difficult voyage from girlhood to womanhood.
I think back to my favorite movie when I was a young girl
(and even before), the "Wizard Of Oz," and the wonderful message
at the end: There's No Place Like Home. I guess if there's a
motto that guides my life, that would be it.
That's why every time I do a load of laundry, scrub a
toilet bowl, or bake a meat loaf, I do it with joy, and I do it
with love, because I know it's another act that helps make our
home what I want it to be; a sanctuary filled with love, laughter
and warmth.
So, whether it's sewing a dress for one of the girls,
picking out a new set of sheets for the bed Doug and I share, or
choosing the plants for this spring's garden, every action fills
me with a sense of joy and purpose.
I know I'm sounding more than a little Pollyannaish. Life
isn't perfect. Doug and I have our quarrels every now and then.
Sometimes, the girls get into trouble (although Kelly seems a lot
more prone to it than Connie, to be honest), and there are months
when my PMS is so bad I think I'm going to go out of my mind!
But all things considered, I wouldn't trade my life for any
other in the world. And why would I want to? It's the life I
wished for so many years ago. But I'll get to that... in a way,
it relates to a problem that I'm having with the girls. It
concerns Christmas, and Santa Claus. You see, Kelly is insisting
that he's not real, that he's just a made-up fairy tale. It's the
influence of her friends, I'm sure.
"You don't have to keep pretending for our sake, Mom," she
said with an exasperated sigh one afternoon. She indicated her
older sister, sitting next to her. She and Connie were having hot
chocolate and some fresh chocolate chip cookies I had just baked
that afternoon; just the thing to warm them up after a walk home
from school in the fresh snow.
Connie looked at her younger sister sadly and shook her
head. "You just don't get it, sis, do you? It doesn't matter what
your friends or anyone else thinks. Santa's real as long as we
believe in him."
I smiled, put my hand on Kelly's, and said gently, "Your
sister is right, dear."
"Oh, MUTH-UR!" Kelly snapped. She pushed her chair back and
stood up. "When are you going to grow up?"
Anyone witnessing the scene would have laughed. Here was a
six-year-old telling her 32-year-old mother to grow up. If you
looked at me, you would see a woman who certain looked to be
fully grown. I'm five feet, six inches tall. I have straight
blonde hair that falls just a little below my shoulders. My
figure's not too bad; in fact, except for 10 extra pounds I can't
seem to shake, and a bit of sag in my breasts, I would be almost
entirely satisfied with it.
This time, I was the one who sighed, because I knew in my
heart that I was losing the "Santa battle" with Kelly. I would
probably never be able to persuade her to believe again; not even
if I told her the truth about me, and why I believed in Santa.
Why shouldn't he? He gave me the greatest gift I've ever
received. He--or to be accurate, someone very close to him--
changed me into a girl.
I was born as Mark, the youngest of three children. I had
an older brother Ted, and an older sister, Kate. You might wonder
when I knew I wanted to be a girl. That would be a hard question
for me to answer, because in my heart, I always thought of myself
as female. I don't ever remember wanting to play with Ted's Tonka
Trucks or building blocks; it was always Kate's Barbies and tea
sets that interested me.
But it went far beyond a matter of play. I saw the bond Ted
had with Dad; I thought that was nice, but while I loved my
daddy, it wasn't what I aspired to. No, what I wanted to do was
to spend time with Mom like Kate did, learning how to cook and
sew and garden and clean house and do all the wonderfully
feminine things she did.
At school, I had few friends, and those I did make were
inevitably girls. I think it was my first grade teacher who first
called the situation to my parent's attention in a way they could
no longer ignore. "Seems to be having gender identification
problems," the note I found one night began. It was the source of
a series of arguments that had been going on between my parents.
I felt terrible about this; terrible because my parents seldom
fought; and terrible, because I knew that I was the cause.
I still recall those sad weeks with an intense clarity. I
didn't understand everything they're saying, but the gist that I
was able to understand is this; my father wanted to steer me
toward "manly pursuits" as soon as possible. I think I heard him
say he wanted to sign me up for Pee-Wee Football, which sent a
real shudder of terror up my spine. My mother, meanwhile kept
insisting that this was "a phase that I would grow out of," and
that it would be more traumatic for me to be forced into
activities that I wasn't eager to embrace.
Fortunately, my mother gained, and kept, the upper hand in
this dispute. But I knew that my time was limited. Even with my
six year old mind, I realized that I would be expected to start
acting like a boy... and that I would eventually have to grow up
to become a man.
Unless, of course, a miracle happened.
I went to bed every night and prayed to wake up a girl. Of
course, I believed in God, but I wanted to hedge by bets. It was
soon November, almost Thanksgiving. It seemed like the perfect
time to begin working on a letter to Santa.
"Dear Santa," I began, "I'm not going to ask you for toys,
clothes, or books. I have a wish for a different kind of gift..."
The day after Thanksgiving, I got a stamp from my parent's
desk, and walked to the corner mailbox to send the letter off to
its destination at the North Pole. But, I told myself; there must
be millions of letters going to the North Pole. So I made sure
that my folks would take me to see Santa at one of our local
department stores as soon as possible.
It was Sunday afternoon of that same holiday weekend when I
found myself in tow with my folks at one of the big malls in our
part of the city. Dad went off to another section of the store,
probably looking for gifts for mom, while she guided me to the
toy section. I led her through the rows of dolls and doll
accessories, something I knew I couldn't get away with if I had
been with dad. I picked up a new Barbie outfit and exclaimed how
beautiful it was. "I'm sure, uh, Kate would really love it," I
said, smiling up at mom.
"Come on honey, let's get in line for Santa," she said.
Soon, we were in the queue. Mom told me she would meet me at the
end of the line after I had finished. I suppose she went to shop
for gifts, but I was so overwhelmed with joy at having privacy, I
didn't think about that. I just kept repeating to myself the
message that I wanted to give to Santa.
Three years earlier, the first time my parents had taken me
to visit Santa, I had cried when I had been placed on his lap.
Who was this strange man in this wild costume whose face was
almost totally obscured by his beard? But that was three whole
years ago; I was still a baby then. Now, I was a grown-up of six,
and wanted to impress Santa with the seriousness of my request
and depth of my longing.
When my turn came, I stepped forward confidently. Santa
lifted me onto his lap, smiled, and asked, "And what do you want
for Christmas, little boy?"
Something happened at that moment. I guess it was being
called a "little boy," but suddenly, I started to cry. It was
like being three years old all over again. Santa just looked at
me with an expression of tenderness and puzzlement. When he saw
that my river of tears showed no signs of abating, he gestured
quickly to one of the young ladies clad in elf costumes... She
put a sign at the head of the line that said: "Santa's Gone to
Feed His Reindeer. Back in 10 minutes."
Santa guided me into the area in back of his store display.
He attempted to soothe me, but decided the best course would be
to just let me get my cry out. After about five minutes, my tears
suddenly subsided. "What is it, son?" he gently inquired.
This time, I managed to hold back the tears, and launched
into my short, prepared speech about why I wanted to be a girl.
At first, he seemed to think it was some kind of passing whim,
but the longer we talked, the more convinced he became that this
was my fondest wish.
I could see that Santa was thinking deeply, carefully about
the things I was telling him. Finally, he looked me directly in
the eyes... I could see the unbounded love and affection for all
children that permeated his soul. "Well, Mark, he said, I can't
make you a promise on this. I wish I could, but I can't. But I
will tell you that I'll try very hard to find a way to make your
wish come true. Okay?"
I nodded, took another sip of the hot chocolate the elf had
brought me, and thanked Santa. "That's Okay, whatever you can do,
sir."
It was then that the elf knocked gently on the door. It
turned out my mother was waiting to collect me, and had become
concerned when she couldn't find me.
Santa himself escorted me to the door, and greeted my
mother with a cheery, "Hi, ma'am! I just wanted to have a private
chat with your son! He's a very wonderful youngster!"
Mom seemed a bit nonplused. "Well, thanks... I've always
thought so, too," she said.
"And please don't ask him what we talked about," Santa mock
whispered to her. "Even Santa likes to be able to come up with
his own surprises every now and then." And then, the jolly old
elf... winked at her!
It was a month until Christmas, and believe me, I counted
the days. Then the hours, and then, starting on the 23rd, the
seconds.
I ran downstairs a little after six on Christmas morning,
and eagerly began pawing through the mountain of packages under
our tree. I had only gotten through about half of them when Mom
came out, wrapped in her favorite chenille robe, with my very
sleepy father in tow behind her. After she got a couple of cups
of coffee in him, She roused Kate and Ted.
It took more than an hour to get through all the packages.
Dad was already starting to burn the big pile of torn-up
wrappings in the fireplace. I had quite a pile of toys, clothes,
books, but not the gift I really wanted... the gift of girlhood.
I must have looked forlorn. Mom was sipping on her mocha
when she asked, "Have you opened everything, Mark?"
"I thought so," I told her.
"I don't think so," she replied with a big smile. "What
about that package behind the drapes there?" Sure enough, there
was a large rectangular box wrapped in bright silver paper. There
was a big red bow in one corner, held in place by the fanciest
satin ribbon I had ever seen. The tag said, "For Mark, from the
Claus family."
I wondered how I had missed it. I started in wonder at the
beautiful package. Finally, mom prompted me: "Aren't you going to
open it dear?"
I tore open the package, lifted the top of the cardboard
box, and found the most lovely red velvet dress. It had a
beautifully detailed lace collar. There was also a set of white
tights in the box, and a pair of shiny black Mary Janes. Finally,
I discovered a curly blonde wig that matched my own hair. It was
the most wonderful outfit I had ever seen. I looked up at mom.
"For me?" I asked. She nodded in the affirmative. I could see the
happy look on her face.
Dad appeared to be in a trance. I couldn't figure out what
was happening with him. "Go on, honey, try your new outfit on!"
Mom said.
I raced upstairs, carrying the box. I'm trying to remember
what was going through my mind at that moment. I think I was
telling myself that it would be fun to dress up and really
pretend to be a girl, but it still wouldn't be the same as being
one.
Still, something told me to trust Santa, and mom... and so
I slipped into the tights, pulled the dress over my head, stepped
into the shoes, and walked over to my mirror. I couldn't believe
how much I looked like a little girl! I had the wig in my hand...
I pulled it on to get a good look at the completed effect.
When I did... that's when the magic happened. I saw myself
surrounded by a shimmering light... then I felt a pleasant
tingle. In a moment, it had all passed, but I had changed.
Forever. I was now Meredith! I knew that my little penis had
disappeared inside of me, that there was a "girl hole" down there
instead; my skin felt so much softer; but maybe the most
important change was inside.
I looked around my room. Everything had changed! My bed now
had a canopy... My boy toys were replaced with dolls and other
girl toys... my closet was filled with dozens of pretty dresses.
I couldn't take it all in... but I couldn't deny the evidence of
my own eyes.
I ran downstairs. Mom was beaming. Dad said, "Meredith,
darling, that's a very pretty dress." Kate, who was in the
kitchen getting things organized for dinner, stuck her head out
and said, "You look beautiful, sis."
At that moment, I knew that not only had I changed, but so
had all of reality. To everyone around me, I had always been
Meredith! It was too good to be true! When Grandpa came for
dinner a couple of hours later, he greeted me with, "How's my
favorite Granddaughter?"
I was in heaven all day. I still didn't understand exactly
what had happened... and didn't until that night, when I finally
went back to my room and took another look at the tissues in the
box my outfit had come in. I found a note... one that I treasure
to this day. It reads:
Dear Meredith,
I sewed this special dress for you! Santa shared with
me details of when he met you, and your letter. I
called your Mother one day while you and your brother
and sister were in school, and your father was at
work. She agreed that you would be far happier as a
girl! I'm so glad to be able to make this special
gift for you!
Love,
Mrs. Santa.
PS: Never stop believing in the magic of Christmas.
Of course, I never have.
Oprah
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