So it’s December 18th and I’m trying to make it a
great Christmas for my boy. Ok, that’s a
pretty lie I tell myself. I’m coasting
at best. My socks are neither too tight,
nor is my heart too small however I loathe this time of year with a smoldering,
tinsel encrusted passion. I’ll say
it. I freaking hate Christmas. Bah Humbug!
The first Holiday Season after my mother passed away I
realized something fundamental about myself.
I have no Christmas spirit to speak of.
Now my Mom, she was a right jolly elf. She’d start playing Christmas songs in
June. Her shopping was done by August 15th
and the month of December was dedicated for decorating, cookie baking, hand
painting ornaments and mailing out 1,672 personalized Christmas cards.
It’s hard to be Grinchy in the face of such enthusiasm so
naturally, I assumed that I had the Christmas bug as well. Then she died and I
spent the next 10 years volunteering to work Christmas day, just so I could avoid
the whole thing. Rum sodden egg nog and the movie where the kid wants a Red
Rider BB gun: those were the parts of Christmas that I liked.
Enter Gabriel.
I was already day dreaming of his first Christmas the day I
brought him home from the hospital. I
was going to fill the apartment with fairy lights, put up the biggest Christmas
tree I could fit through the door and indoctrinate him, early into Jimmy Stewart’s
Wonderful Life. I had plans, man.
And then we went to Columbia and found out that his eyes
were irreparably damaged. It was the beginning
of December and the streets of Bogotá were decorated with gloriously cheerful
garland that my baby would never see. Every one of those icicle lights pierced my
heart. On the plane ride home, with
unshed tears burning my eyes, I knew I couldn’t do it. I knew I couldn’t make a Christmas that
year. My baby’s first and I barely
acknowledged it. Well, I had some
eggnog. Fa la la la la.
Seven years later here we are again. Christmastime. And I’m trying to try. Christmas is a very visual holiday, if you really
think about it so I work with what I’ve got.
The house smells of our Christmas tree and cranberry scented
candles. Nat King Cole is singing about
Frosty the Snowman and I’m thinking about actually stringing popcorn by hand,
although I’m not sure there’s enough Rum in the Caribbean to fuel that particular
activity.
Gabriel is incredibly smart and asks too many intelligent
questions…this whole Santa Clause thing is falling apart at a rapid clip. It doesn’t help that I hate to lie to him and
have never really felt too good about the while Chris Cringle thing. I answer his questions as abstractly as
possible in the following fashion:
Gabriel: Mom, we don’t
have a chimney. How will Santa get in
the House?
Me: Ummm…..well he’s
Santa. He probably knows where we keep
the hide-a-key.
Gabriel: How can the
elves really make all those presents? They’re so small.
Me: Couple of years ago
Santa started outsourcing some of the work to Mordor. They have an Orc reform program, so those
guys do the heavy lifting.
Gabriel: Orcs do not
work in Santa’s workshop!
Me: Course not. They’re
allergic to Candy Canes.
Gabriel: How does
Santa know if I’m being good?
Me: I rat you
out. There’s a hotline parents can call
when their kids have been naughty.
Gabriel: Oh, yeah? What’s the number?
Me: 1-800-Snow-bal
Gabriel: Can I see
your phone.
Me: No. Want a
cookie?
This is the last year that he’ll believe in Santa but that’s
not really what it’s about anyway. I’ve
been teaching him about brotherhood. I
teach him that Christmas is a time of year where you go out of your way to let
the people you love know how special they are to you. When you help people who have less than you,
when you put aside your fears and worries for a little while and celebrate what
you have at the moment.
In teaching him this, I relearned it myself and some of my
hatred for the season seems to have waned.
I’m taking time to count my many blessings and eagerly anticipating the beginning
of a new year. I’ve found some joy in my
heart that is unrelated to rum or BB guns and I can’t wait to see the look on
my Little Dude’s face when he finds the Xbox that Santa’s Orcs whipped him up
this year.
All the Christmas lights he'll never see still cause me a modicum of dismay but every year it gets easier. And, hey...if I'm sneaky enough, I can Christmas shop for him, right in front of him.
I hope all of you reading this, whatever your beliefs, whatever you celebrate have a wonderful Holiday Season. Have an eggnog for me.
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