Confessions of a Latter-Day Christmas Celebrator
In case you missed this plot point, it’s the most wonderful time of the year! Christmas, that most revered of holidays, is upon us. It’s time for eggnog (yuck) and Yuletide (what’s that?) and lights (multicolored? or white?) and decorations (illuminated fawn, no blow-up Santa), trees (wow, that’s big) and exuberant children. And presents. Lots and lots of presents.
I’ve had Christmas envy my whole life. Growing up, I wanted to be Catholic: There was the beautiful stained glass, there was good music—in Latin!—and there was CCD, that mysterious after-school activity that took out many of my friends every Wednesday. My mom barred me from midnight mass until my senior year of high school, for fear I would convert.
Alas, no such transformation would occur, and many years later, I remain the lame Jew I always was. But through marriage, almost-divorce and now in my new life with child, almost-husband and almost-stepchild, Christmas is alive and well, and living in my house.
To be fair, we celebrate Hanukkah, too. But it’s not the same thing. Growing up, Hanukkah was a holiday to light candles, say a quick Hebrew prayer (poorly), get a nice gift the first night, skip a few nights because you forgot, and get some socks the rest of the nights. It was fun; it was festive. But it was not Christmas. We’ve kicked it up a notch now, and the kids love lighting the menorah. But it’s still not all that big a holiday, and I’m told it never was intended to be.
So now I get to join in all the fun of the big one. And mostly, I dig it. But sometimes I do feel guilty, like an Xmas impostor (see, right there: B, the almost-husband, informed me a few Xmases ago that you really don’t use ‘Xmas’ in cards. And you DEFINITELY don’t say ‘Xmas’. That’s only for labeling boxes. OK.)
When we do our annual pilgrimage to the farm for the Christmas tree, each year I try for the little one in the corner, as if a smaller tree would make it OK, would keep my beloved, deceased Grandpa Ilo from hitting me with a disgusted “Aaaaaach!” from on high. It never works. Real Christmas celebrators always, always want a big, healthy-looking tree on which to hang the tinsel and lights and myriad, often breakable decorations. So every year I am outvoted.
Then there’s Santa. No one told me the rules about Santa, so I kind of winged it. Now I have a personal relationship with the big guy—when E has had issues or questions, I can summon him at will, and I get answers no one else can hear, even this time of year, when he’s super busy. You wouldn’t think an impostor like me would have this kind of access, but maybe that’s just another Christmas miracle.
So tonight we will make cookies and leave them out with a glass of warm milk (I tried to point out to E that the milk won’t stay warm by the time S gets here. She looked at me dumbfounded, like I had five heads. See, I really don’t know what I’m doing here.)
And tomorrow morning, the kids will wake up way too early, see the presents Santa brought, and wake us up, excited beyond measure. And for what will take one-quarter of the time the wrapping did, they will open their presents with unbridled joy.
Tomorrow morning, they won’t be two kids grappling with chronic disease (E) or being on the autism spectrum (K). They’ll just be two happy, happy kids. And tomorrow morning, we’ll be the parents of two happy, alive children, though our minds will undoubtedly slip to those whose Christmases will be altogether different. And we will know how lucky we are.
Merry Christmas to all.
The Santa Chronicles
The aspirational “Most Wonderful Time of the Year” is upon us and I, lame Jew of little knowledge, once again find myself in regular talks with The Big Guy in the Red Suit, aka Santa.
It’s a curious situation, one I fell into on happenstance with little preparation or knowledge. Growing up with my mom and brother, ours was a Hanukkah-only home, where we lit candles when my mom remembered (typically five or six of the nights). The gift-giving went like this: The first night you received a nice present, the next night you got a book or album, the rest of the nights you got . . . socks. Needless to say, I always had Christmas envy, and not-so-secretly longed to be Catholic, because then I could go to CCD with my friends on Wednesdays, and I loved singing in Latin and always found the stained glass/candle combination to be pretty in a mysterious kind of way.
My mother worried about my impending conversion so much that I was forbidden to attend Midnight Mass until my senior year of high school. I’m not sure why she thought the Catholic Church would be interested in adding me to their roster, but when I was 17 she relented, my era of impressionability seemingly expired. She no longer was concerned that I would succumb to the pressure of Father Rob at St. John’s, the church down the block where many of my friends attended, in whose rectory I smoked my first cigarette at age 12.
Fast forward to 2003. Now 33, I became mom to a child who would celebrate Christmas and yes, believe in Santa Claus. My relationship with Santa–though relatively short-lived–is an intense one. You see, I have been bestowed with the mystical powers of a telepathic connection to SC, even in December, his busiest month. I know not to overuse this power, as he has a lot of lists to read right now, and is overseeing multiple elf-filled production lines to check them all off. Santa’s got a hard deadline, I’m well aware. So I keep it brief, these conversations.
It does come in handy, being able to talk directly to The Man and hearing his quick responses, always of the reassuring kind. You see, my Santa is a New Testament kind of guy. He forgives most kids their trespasses, as long as they’re good most of the time and they try really hard to be kind to others, even their almost-step-brothers, and don’t leave all of their doo-dads all over the house. The threat of coal-filled stockings is not one my Santa uses often. That’s saved only for truly evil children, and I know none of those. Truth be told, my Santa is a softy, a wise friend, a green lighter of wishes large and small. He offers constructive criticism but his overarching theme is being pleased with the progress. He’s an affable, big-picture guy.
While Santa came to me through marriage, after we split up, I was left in the dubious position of winging it with the Santa rules. Kind of like when you get a surprise essay test and try to psychobabble your way through it, not realizing that the more you write, the larger the hole you dig for yourself. This is all fine and good until your child reaches a certain age where they start to compare notes. Or when you end up in a blended family where your partner has more definitive rules (and scoffs at your made-up ones). Then you find out other protocols, such as:
- The aforementioned almost-stepbrother who, once a year, receives a phone call from Santa. This led to a heated discussion on cell phone reception in the North Pole. [I suggested that Santa came down to the U.S. for that call, which he does occasionally for test runs and to map out his route. This explanation was met with befuddlement (the boy) and affirmation (the girl).]
- The letter from Santa, all in cursive, that E’s friend received (who complained it was too long. Obviously not my child.)
- In my ex’s family, under “From” on the adhesive tags, it would read, “Santa, Mom and Dad.” Except for the big presents–those would just be from “Mom and Dad.” They didn’t want the Big Guy to get sole credit for any of it.
- In my fiance’s family, however, most of the gifts are from Santa alone; only one or two of the big ones are from us, with no Santa involvement whatsoever. We continue to negotiate our way around this sticking point.
- In fact, I’ve only uncovered one “universal” rule in all of this Santa-lore: Always leave the cookies out for him–and make sure he takes at least one bite, because there’s no better proof that The Big Guy was there.
Now that my daughter is almost nine, though, she may be onto some of my tricks. When she noticed some Amazon packages delivered to our door, she was quick to accept my lame explanation that some things are just too heavy for SC’s sleigh, what with all of the other presents and Donner having back issues lately. So he has them delivered. She also suggested we get wrapping paper, under the guise that since the elves are working 24/7 now, sometimes he asks me to finish the job. Seems my early fear–that she would one day be traumatized and angered by all of this mythology and deception–is being proven unwarranted. If she knows, she’s not letting on, because the payoff of believing–or seeming to believe–is just too good.
This would all be OK except for one complication: K, her 10-year-old almost-stepbrother who lives with us half the week, is a true believer. So Santa–with all of our conflicting protocols–remains a key part of Christmas. At least for now.
Before all that, though, comes Hanukkah. Today I will resurrect the menorah from the basement and vow to light the candles at least 60 percent of the nights, as I was taught long ago. E likes Hanukkah, and she likes socks, too. On some level, she knows she has it good, especially this time of year. Her only complaint came last week, upon exiting the school bus: “Mommy,” she implored, in that tone of half-annoyance that eight-year-old girls seem to master, “Why don’t we celebrate Kwanzaa?”
Happy Hanukkah. Merry Christmas. Happy Kwanzaa. And a Happy and Healthy 2012.
Running in Crocs 