{I was planning to write a brand-new Christmas post today but I couldn’t think of anything to say. And then I decided to re-read this post, which I wrote a year and a day ago. It still sums up my feelings about the season. Watching the proverbial sugarplums dancing in my daughter’s head still makes my heart sing. The year has been hard and there is a part of my family that is missing but the little girl who remains is purely delightful. Happy Holidays!}
The Christmas season is upon us. And when I say “upon” I mean sitting on top of us and kicking us in the face with its big, sooty Santa boots. For the past 10 years or so, Christmas has seemed like something to get through. The magic of my youth, when I would wait for the Sears catalog to arrive and then circle, dog-ear and then highlight (just to be extra sure) the 978 toys that I wanted, faded long ago. The enjoyment of the lights and songs and spirit of the season gave way to feeling taxed and maxed out, not just mentally and physically but also from the perspective of the kind people at Mastercard. How many Christmas cookies can one person eat (a lot) and how many pairs of Dearfoam slippers does one person need (none, thanks)? In short, I started to be the Grinchy person who was dimming the lights and hiding in the bathroom when I saw the carolers coming.
All of that has changed this year. My usual black on black on black clothing ensembles have been accented by a red scarf and red Pumas, and eggnog lattes are on my mind just about 24/7. Why the change of heart? It is all the fault of a certain blonde-haired maniac in a Pull-Up and footie pajamas. My daughter is 3 1/2 this year and the spirit of the season is in her eyes, in her silly Christmas dances and on her tongue as she talks to Santa in her sleep.
Because I’m so progressive insane I feel a little bit strange about lying to my child about Santa (although I have no issue whatsoever telling her that I’m eating raisins when she catches me eating candy). It’s hard to imagine the crestfallen face that I will have to endure when she finds out the truth. Nonetheless, we did the big trek out to sit on the Man in Red’s lap and let me tell you, she was elated! She was practically bouncing off the ceiling for days, telling and retelling every detail, every moment of their time together. I never expected such a truly, genuinely giddy response. And then last week we were lying in bed, reading bedtime stories. She had chosen Babar’s Rescue from the library. It is a tale of a camping trip gone awry. Babar is kidnapped by a pack of stripe-eared elephants and his daughter must save him. After the story I asked my daughter if she would like to rescue her daddy. She replied, “Yes! But I don’t know how to get there!!” She looked absolutely terrified and it was clear that she thought her daddy had been captured by the stripe-eared elephants and was being fed poisoned Watermelon Smoothies with Babar. After calming her down I realized something: Christmas is made for 3-year-olds. It’s not for 34-year-old curmudgeons like me. The imagination and the promise of hope and miracles are so alive in a preschooler. How could I deprive her of the full Christmas experience? In other words, my little Grinch heart grew three sizes that day.
So pass me an eggnog latte and hack off a slice of that Yule Log. I have lights to hang. I have cookies to bake. I have a 3-foot tall stocking to fill.
As for Santa laughing at her when she nervously told him that she wanted “a toy” for Christmas? I’ll deal with him on December 26th.
This Human's Condition 