Someone made me smile

We decided, long before our children were ever born, to never lie to them.

This is a bit laughable as I look back on it now, as I probably tell tiny white lies every day: "I'm sorry baby, I can't play with you right now because Momma's working," I say as I click through Facebook to skim the news. Or, "Darn it, it looks like we're all out of cookies.... how about some cheesy broccoli instead?" [Note: I'm pretty sure Erin still abides by this rule, though I have no idea how.]

But as a couple, and for such a weighty construct as Christmas, how to handle Santa Claus has been a tricky and longstanding debate.

We aren't religious, so embracing the story of Jesus never felt right. And perpetuating the commercial hullaballoo of Santa Claus didn't appeal, either. Any fictional character or myth that requires a lot of elaborate storytelling or choreography to be convincing seems like a violation of trust, if not a complete departure from the basic tenants of physics, logic, and common sense. Our unusually perceptive son would be on to us before long anyway, so what was the point?

Yet, Santa Claus is an institution much larger than us. Who wants to be the assholes whose son ruins Christmas for everyone? So we compromised: we'd tell our son about "Santa," but it'd be Erin dressing up each year for a brief cameo. That way, Daddy being jolly old St. Nick would be true, while not confusing his more innocent classmates when Ash talks about the presents he got from him. Or at least, that was the idea.

Trouble was, we failed to work out the particulars. Last year it didn't matter: the kid was 7 months old and wouldn't have known Santa from a houseplant. I'd gotten a cheap costume for Erin online and it was no trouble to mildly bewilder our son when he was handed a ball by a strange man in a red suit. No biggie.

But this year, with a precocious 20-month old, the message really mattered. The sheer mechanics of this plan was worth discussing in detail, yet we completely neglected to do so until it was too late. Did we agree on leaving gifts out under the tree? Turns out, nope. Who was responsible for the goodies in the stockings, us, or Santa? Totally unclear. If Santa arrived at a time when Daddy was conveniently "in the bathroom," what's all this business about him coming down the chimney during the night? And who the heck are all those imposters at the Mall? There were answers for none of it.

We got so many things wrong that morning, including who, what, when, where, and why Santa is....yet when Kris Kringle arrived festooned with an obvious fake beard, no belly, and suspiciously similar glasses to Daddy's, (not to mention a"Ho, ho, ho" that bellowed in a familiar baritone), we still managed to completely dupe our son. When Ash looked nervous, we went as far as to tell him it was "just Daddy in a costume" but it did no good: as soon as Erin reappeared in Daddy clothes, Ash ran off to figure out where the heck Santa went. And has been talking nonstop about him and the globe he left for days now. All in all, the ruse was a roaring success. Once again, I found this to be the most amusing possible thing, and delighted in capturing it best I could. This is one tradition that promises to make me smile for decades to come.

Thankfully, we have a few more years to get our story straight. :-)

The night before

The night before Christmas, I can never sleep.

Part of it is my fault. I stay up too late puttering around, there's a myriad of things to do: last minute presents must be wrapped, the house must be rigorously cleaned (more than usual, for who doesn't want a fresh house on Christmas morning?), and as I've recently learned, there's no better time to prune the toys, as they'll never be missed once the new ones arrive.

But the late hour is often compounded by the fact that I've also probably stayed up late a night or two before that, for it's the holiday season and I'm prone to overextension. So by the time Christmas Eve rolls around I'm completely overtired, and when I'm overtired, I can't sleep. Throw in a little residual Christmas spirit from my childhood—where somewhere in my unconscious I have one ear cocked for sleigh bells on the roof and rustling under the tree—and I'm pretty much screwed.

Not in the morning, mind you. Adrenaline and my child's unadulterated glee gets me through that part, not to mention the excitement of presents and spiked coffee. But when the booze and caffeine wear off, and the work of the day begins (picking up the explosion of wrapping paper, starting dinner prep, corralling an overstimulated toddler) I start to fade. I have to will myself to remember that exhaustion is my number one trigger for anger snaps, so I voluntarily busy myself in the kitchen for an hour or two, doing my best to steer clear of anyone likely to provoke me. Because no one wants that kind of Christmas, least of all me.

But as dinner gets well underway, and my child becomes wholly occupied with his new amusements, a few glasses of wine later and I'm back to floating on serene contentment, loopy if not completely happy. My partner's holiday cheer has rubbed off, the day is deemed a wild success, and sure, maybe I'm a little tipsy, too. A delicious feast ensues, cleanup is put off till morning, and I'm primed for what I know is perhaps the the best feeling in the world: collapsing into bed, fully spent, on Christmas night.

Tree

There's something unnervingly authentic about cutting one's own Christmas tree, though I can't say I'm entirely for it. It's a personal decision, perhaps, and one I think of in the same vein as hunting: assuming it's a healthy, sustainable population, which most tree farms are these days (and more so), taking the living out of another living thing is a perfectly respectable decision, if not the most ecologically and morally responsible, when you're willing to do the dirty work yourself. You know. Get muddy, curse the cold, question whether you really have it in you to look that poor thing in the soul before you cut its life short.You might even go to great lengths to repurpose all the usable parts: tree scraps become mantel ornamentation, dried needles become fodder for winter fires. Yet, every time, I think to myself: gosh, wouldn't it be easier if we just went to the Christmas tree store? Wouldn't it be better for Mother Earth, her trees in dwindling supply, to just opt for a fake one, like the Tofurky of the forest? I grapple with these questions each year as we trundle off into the woods, a waiting thermos hot chocolate my only conciliation, knowing full well our adventures in tree hunting are always more pain (in the rear) than cost. But I know the real reason we do it, and it's 100% selfish: the feel of the greenery when we touch it, the smell of it filling our house, the springy way it gives when our ornaments land. It's the very taste of Christmas—and it's delicious.