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When my daughter woke up Christmas morning, she stumbled into the living room as she does every morning with Baby tucked under her arm and her hair sticking straight up like you rubbed a balloon against her head.
Only this time things were different.
This time she was old enough to understand that Santa had paid her a visit in the night. The cookies we’d baked, decorated and left on the hearth with a glass of milk had been nibbled down to crumbs. The milk was just a chalky film in the glass. And in front of the hearth sat a little girl-sized play kitchen complete with refrigerator, microwave and cordless phone. And next to that, an art desk that folded up into an easel revealing buckets for markers, colored pencils, crayons and chalk. Below the tree, there were more gifts than there had been the night before. It was clear. Santa had definitely been here.
She is only 2 ¾ years old. So a lot of the charade is forced, I have to admit. A lot of it is done for the benefit of the adults who are trying to relive the Christmas magic that we were deprived of when a mean-spirited boy in the neighborhood told us the truth and thus dampened our Christmas spirit.
She recognizes Santa when she sees him, even when he’s a blow up Santa on top of a car dealership. She knows he lives in the North Pole. She sort of gets that he comes down the chimney, though chimney isn’t a word she hears very often so that aspect of Santa seems to confuse her. She knows he drives a sleigh, but the fact that it’s powered by nine flying reindeer goes over her head. She’s not into Rudolph yet. Or, Frosty the Snowman for that matter.
Still, we played the game, and we played it well. As soon as she was in bed, my Dad and I fetched the box from the garage and began to assemble the kitchen from 34 parts that were outlined in 17 diagrammed steps. Tools were brought out. Screws were broken. Cuss words were mumbled below my father’s breath. But two hours later (I do not exaggerate), we had assembled a mighty fine kitchen. And Chris had put together the art desk, and eaten all the cookies. Perhaps one of the most important duties there is to playing Santa.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
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2 comments:
Went went through it ALL, too. And mine is only a year and a half. Oh, well. I had a lot of fun singing "Santa Claus is coming to town" to her. Over and over. She probably thought I had a screw loose.
Happy New Year's Eve!
My 20-month-old hated Santa and scoffed at my rousing (if I do say so myself) rendition of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Did I let that stop me? Hell, no.
The stocking was filled, cookies and milk left and eaten, I even stopped the conversation numerous times Christmas Eve because I was just SURE I heard reindeer hooves on the roof.
Christmas is all about the kids, yes, but until mine is old enough to enjoy properly I consider it my duty to step in by proxy.
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When my daughter woke up Christmas morning, she stumbled into the living room as she does every morning with Baby tucked under her arm and her hair sticking straight up like you rubbed a balloon against her head.
Only this time things were different.
This time she was old enough to understand that Santa had paid her a visit in the night. The cookies we’d baked, decorated and left on the hearth with a glass of milk had been nibbled down to crumbs. The milk was just a chalky film in the glass. And in front of the hearth sat a little girl-sized play kitchen complete with refrigerator, microwave and cordless phone. And next to that, an art desk that folded up into an easel revealing buckets for markers, colored pencils, crayons and chalk. Below the tree, there were more gifts than there had been the night before. It was clear. Santa had definitely been here.
She is only 2 ¾ years old. So a lot of the charade is forced, I have to admit. A lot of it is done for the benefit of the adults who are trying to relive the Christmas magic that we were deprived of when a mean-spirited boy in the neighborhood told us the truth and thus dampened our Christmas spirit.
She recognizes Santa when she sees him, even when he’s a blow up Santa on top of a car dealership. She knows he lives in the North Pole. She sort of gets that he comes down the chimney, though chimney isn’t a word she hears very often so that aspect of Santa seems to confuse her. She knows he drives a sleigh, but the fact that it’s powered by nine flying reindeer goes over her head. She’s not into Rudolph yet. Or, Frosty the Snowman for that matter.
Still, we played the game, and we played it well. As soon as she was in bed, my Dad and I fetched the box from the garage and began to assemble the kitchen from 34 parts that were outlined in 17 diagrammed steps. Tools were brought out. Screws were broken. Cuss words were mumbled below my father’s breath. But two hours later (I do not exaggerate), we had assembled a mighty fine kitchen. And Chris had put together the art desk, and eaten all the cookies. Perhaps one of the most important duties there is to playing Santa.
Playing Santa
Only this time things were different.
This time she was old enough to understand that Santa had paid her a visit in the night. The cookies we’d baked, decorated and left on the hearth with a glass of milk had been nibbled down to crumbs. The milk was just a chalky film in the glass. And in front of the hearth sat a little girl-sized play kitchen complete with refrigerator, microwave and cordless phone. And next to that, an art desk that folded up into an easel revealing buckets for markers, colored pencils, crayons and chalk. Below the tree, there were more gifts than there had been the night before. It was clear. Santa had definitely been here.
She is only 2 ¾ years old. So a lot of the charade is forced, I have to admit. A lot of it is done for the benefit of the adults who are trying to relive the Christmas magic that we were deprived of when a mean-spirited boy in the neighborhood told us the truth and thus dampened our Christmas spirit.
She recognizes Santa when she sees him, even when he’s a blow up Santa on top of a car dealership. She knows he lives in the North Pole. She sort of gets that he comes down the chimney, though chimney isn’t a word she hears very often so that aspect of Santa seems to confuse her. She knows he drives a sleigh, but the fact that it’s powered by nine flying reindeer goes over her head. She’s not into Rudolph yet. Or, Frosty the Snowman for that matter.
Still, we played the game, and we played it well. As soon as she was in bed, my Dad and I fetched the box from the garage and began to assemble the kitchen from 34 parts that were outlined in 17 diagrammed steps. Tools were brought out. Screws were broken. Cuss words were mumbled below my father’s breath. But two hours later (I do not exaggerate), we had assembled a mighty fine kitchen. And Chris had put together the art desk, and eaten all the cookies. Perhaps one of the most important duties there is to playing Santa.