Christmas is coming. Next week, the jolly elf we call St. Nicholas will squeeze down millions of chimneys and leave behind toys for all the boys and girls that didn’t piss him off over the past twelve months. I admit that at my age I am still confused as to exactly how a religious celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ has morphed into this circus of putting trees in your house, lighting the yard like an airport runway and burying your family in a hole of debt they will not be able to dig themselves out of for the next six months, but figuring out why we do what we do is not my job.
My job is to make sure I buy the right presents so the kids don’t hate me.
I look forward to celebrating Christmas every year. And, by celebrating, of course I mean six weeks of dread trying to figure out what gifts my family and friends want, crippling guilt as I fail miserably at finding anything meaningful, then the maniacal panic of going online in late December to buy whatever items I can find that are still “currently in stock.” Usually, what’s left are scented candles, socks with cartoon characters on them, and assortments of candy spiked with various types of alcohol.
I hope my family isn’t reading this blog because I may have accidentally just told them what they are getting this year.
It’s such a joy on Christmas morning to sit on the couch by a roaring fire in the fireplace and watch the kids mow through wrapped boxes under the tree like a riding lawn mower through the neighbor’s flower bed. Then I get to watch their disappointed little faces look up at me as they realize there is nothing in the pile of gifts that they asked for or are ever going to use.
For example, let me play out a brief skit we enacted a few years ago:
**
EM2 (holding up a hammer and screwdriver): “Um, dad? What’s this?”
Me: “Remember, you asked for a dollhouse?”
EM2: “Yeah.”
Me: “Now, you can build all the dollhouses you want.”
**
As you might expect, no dollhouses were ever built. On the plus side, that was the day I learned that my sweet little girl knew how to swear like a sailor.
My dad was much better at this kind of stuff than I have ever been. He always knew how to get the family into the Christmas spirit. He was the type of person that would throw on an oversized red coat and climb up on the roof of the house at two o’clock in the morning, then he would stomp around shouting “ho, ho, ho,” and ringing a string of jingle bells. Granted, it was the middle of February when he did it.
Did I mention that my dad was a bit of a drinker?
Well, his heart was in the right place, even when his decision-making skills were severely challenged.
I never had his talent for making people happy. I just wanted to take the path of least resistance, which usually consisted of passing off the gift-purchasing responsibility to my wife. It’s much easier to deal with a child’s disappointment when I had very little to do with it.
Like, when EM1 was five and asked for a unicorn for a pet. I explained to her they didn’t exist, and she started to cry. I felt so bad that I relented and told her they were actually real, but we couldn’t get one because the last one died when mommy forgot to feed it. EM1 cried again, but at least this time it wasn’t my fault.
See? Easy.
As the girl’s got older, they began to question whether or not Santa was real. Rather than create some elaborate ruse to convince them of his existence, like my dad would have done, I just told them that Santa knew how they felt about him. If they didn’t believe in him, he wasn’t going to believe in them.
Nothing keeps the magic alive like the thinly veiled threat of no presents.
To this day, when December rolls around, EM2 will pat me on the stomach and say, “I believe in you, Santa. So, what am I getting?” It is at the same time endearing and incredibly hurtful.
Although my dad passed away many years ago, I still feel closer to him during the holidays than at any other time of the year. I may not have inherited his ability to share cheer and joy with those around him, or his love of making a holiday spectacle out of himself, but I did learn one very important thing about Christmas from him that I will never forget:
If you start drinking on Christmas Eve, you don’t have to sober up again until after New Year’s Day.
Words to live by.