So This Is What Happened

“Christmas” morning, she woke the same time as usual. “Mama, is it daytime?” I hurried down the hallway, eager for holiday fun. “Yes, it’s daytime.” “Oh. Read me a story.” “Uh, ok.” I read “Toot and Puddle” while she played with her blue teddy bear. Keep in mind that when I was three, by this time of the morning I would have already knocked down my parents’ door several times, leading them to threaten to take away my toys before I even opened them. Actually, now that I think about it, by this time of the day, we were usually done opening presents altogether, and had passed out on the living room floor from Christmas Bloat.

Eventually...”Mama, can we go downstairs? Maybe Santa came.” “Yeah, maybe.” We meandered down. “If he came, I will be speechless when I see my stocking like Laura in ‘Little House,’ I think.” She stopped and looked under the tree. “There are new presents here, wrapped in the paper we sent to Santa,” she said thoughtfully. “My name is on them.” She looked at the presents for a few moments, chewing her lip. “Where do you think your stocking is?” I asked. She clutched my leg and looked around. Together, we shuffled into the next room, where I had artfully laid the stuffed stocking the night before (after downing Santa’s cider--which she hadn’t wanted to leave for him because “it might make him have to pee.”). She was, indeed, speechless.

I think Santa has redeemed himself.

Merry Christmas. Christmas is really on Saturday for us this year, since Grandma and Grampa W (“dubbidu”) are arriving today, aka “Christmas Eve.” So yesterday didn’t really feel like Christmas, and the family members certainly weren’t acting like it was the most exciting holiday of the year. The three-year-old was whining for more “Wee Sing”--she won’t watch Frosty or Rudolph, apparently because they are too frightening. The wee, wee one had no idea; she’s happy any day of the week. And all I wanted for Christmas was my coffee. Fortunately the kind neighbors across the street took pity on us and invited us to their Hannukah party, so there we were, the lonely Christians* on Christmas. But it was fun. From an outsider’s point of view, Hannukah seems to involve excessive chocolate, excellent food, wine, and lovely candles. All good, in my opinion.

When we realized we’d be spending Christmas in Ithaca, the first thing we did was get a tree. I sent the Husband and the Toddler out on the mission, certain they’d be up to performing the task. They returned with a plastic-wrapped evergreen torpedo. “Did you look at it before they wrapped it up?” I asked. “It came that way!” Charles exclaimed. “No mess in the car!” He cut the plastic off, and brown needles showered the floor. “We’ll just turn this side to the wall,” he said, looking at the dun-colored branches. “Let’s put the lights on!” the toddler yelled, jumping around in circles. I was trying to remember the last time I changed the battery in the smoke detector. Fortunately the risk of fire was reduced because there are enough lights to cover just half of the tree. We could only reach some of the Christmas decorations because the pile of boxes in our storage unit has the structural integrity of Swiss cheese, so roughly the top third of the tree is covered with ornaments. This works out well since Astronaut has decided it is her objective to rip down everyornament within her reach. We keep finding slightly damp gingerbread soldiers under the couch, and each night I fall asleep to the sound of glass balls skittering on the floor. My dear sweet child, feeling that she can negate millions of years of feline evolution, shrieks at Astro whenever she finds her with yet another quilted snowflake in her mouth. Astro herself is doing her best to break out of the carnivore bracket, eating the lower branches of the tree bit by bit.

I feel like there’s some sort of wise, thought-provoked statement I should make on the true nature of Christmas, a revelation I’ve had while pondering the twinkling lights, half-baked tree and the real priorities of my toddler. But the two brain cells I have to rub together aren’t up to such a task, so I’ll spare you the melodrama (and I’m certain you’ll thank me).

Merry Christmas.

*Charles would like me to point out that calling him a “Christian” is certainly a stretch of the imagination.

Overheard in the Kitchen: "No, no--erasers do not eat cows."

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Toddlerita Mindworks--A Special Holiday Edition

So it's Christmas Time, and all of the little children are bursting with excitement. They can't wait to meet Santa Claus at the mall and ask him for that special something; they're counting down the days until they pounce upon their stockings and open dozens of gifts under the glittering tree.

Not in our house.

"Do you want to write a letter to Santa Claus?" I asked last week, remembering fondly the pink-scribbled construction paper missive from last year, in which Santa was very politely asked for a purple reindeer. "No!" she said, as horrified as if I had threatened to burn her Elmo slippers. "Well, uh, wouldn't you like to ask him for some toys?" "NO! I have enough toys! I already got a blue teddy bear this year!" (Thank you, Auntie Hilma!) "Well, what will Santa put in your stocking when he comes to Grandma's house?" "I do not want him to come to Grandma's house!" OK, great, I am thinking to myself. The kid clearly has some issues, but at least she's not materialistic! But then I got to thinking from the toddlerita's point of view. Why the heck would she not want new toys?

We had been seeing Salvation Army bell-ringers when we were out and about, and, seeing an opportunity to instill some good values, I'd been explaining that some folks don't have as much as we do. They need other people's help to get warm clothes and food. I had broached the idea of giving away some of the toys and books that she didn't play with anymore, so we could share with kids who don't have as much as we do. She didn't think much of that idea, so I dropped it, thinking we could just wait until after Christmas when she already had the new toys.

Hm. Salvation Army ringers wear Santa hats, don't they? Hm. "Do you think that Santa is going to take your old toys when he comes on Christmas?" I asked. "NO! No! I do NOT want Santa to come take my toys!" Bingo. "Sweetie, Santa is not going to take your toys away." "I DO NOT WANT SANTA TO COME! NO!" "I know, darling, he's not GOING to take your toys. He's going to bring you new toys. You don't have to give the old ones away unless you don't want to play with them anymore." "NO!" And on and on.

Things are getting better, maybe. She came downstairs yesterday dressed in the Wee One's rainbow-striped sweater, hat and mittens, with little red elf slippers on her feet. "I am Santa Claus," she announced. "That must be what he wears on his day off," I replied, peering over the newspaper. "You are Comet, and my little sister is Rudolph. Papa is an elf." We made wrapping paper at a friend's house, and she suggested that we send it to Santa Claus at the North Pole so he could use it. "To wrap your presents?" I asked. "No," she said, looking at me warily. Ah, well. There's always next year. Perhaps by then she'll forget that her killjoy mother told her that Santa the Evil Elf was coming to take away all her toys.