Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse! The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, and I wrapped all the gifts while he snored like a bear!* Charles Dickens wrote, “Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!” Quiet home? Humbug! Dickens never spent Christmas at my house.
I remember Christmas as a noisy time of year: noisy stores, noisy children, noisy toys, nosy—uh, noisy—relatives. The Grinch had a point: the noise, noise, NOISE! But Dickens was right about “the pleasures of youth.” Christmas, for me, has always been a time to become a child again, and the best way to do that is to see Christmas through a child’s eyes.
I remember taking one of my nieces, then age 4, to see The Nutcracker. I watched the ballet as if for the first time, through her reactions. When a cannon shot the Rat King, she literally levitated off my lap (making for a necessary potty break).
Now I am raising a grandson and I adore visiting Munchkin Land each December to watch his school holiday show. My favorite part is when he tells me the night before that he needs a costume. This year he was Prince Albert, and I had Prince Albert in the can in two minutes flat: a cravat, black pants, and a white shirt! The show was perfect with myriad tiny voices squeaking out “Hark, Harold the angel sings,” and “We three kings disorient are.”
Christmas also means decorating, and this grandma rocks around the Christmas tree! My British husband is also a very matzoh man, as is grandson Mini-Brit, so we also celebrate Hanukkah. But when the last candle on the menorah goes out, it’s time for Christmas. What Mini-Brit calls the burning Hanukkah bush goes up in the living room and Hanna-Klaus Brit begins his kvetching. Oy, oy veh! It still didn’t stop him from dressing up as Father Christmas at Mini-Claus’ school and greeting everyone with candy canes and merriment. I’d call him a ham, but that wouldn’t be kosher!
I also put out the nativity crèche. I actually have two. One was Mom’s, which she gave me a few years ago. It’s a painted tin stable with figurines missing bits of halos, staffs, and wings, but the music box on the back still cranks out a tinny “Silent Night” and transports me to my childhood. The other—simply Joseph, Mary, and Christ in the manger—I made of clay at age 16 and gave to my close friend, Peter. He and companion Henry enjoyed it for many years, until Peter recently returned it to me for safe-keeping: another Christmas treasure of a wonderful friendship remembered and maintained.
Of course, the secular aspect of Christmas means shopping, and I am on the lookout for the perfect gift year round. Yes, Virginia, I keep a gift stash, and I am clever at hiding it, too. Sorry, I cannot reveal my secrets because I live with two of the biggest snoops on the planet!
One year I gave a set of Sesame Street plush characters, the Honkers, to my brother Mike’s two daughters, then age 3 and 4. These made loud HONK! sounds when squeezed. Apparently his girls rised, shined, and unwrapped them at 5 a.m., Tennessee time. My phone rang at 3:05 a.m. California time. I jerked awake, fearing the worst at that hour, and uttered “Hello?” I heard loud honks and giggles, then Mike said softly, “I hate you,” and hung up the phone. Ah, the memories!
One of the best gifts was always a batch of Mom’s cinnamon rolls. Martha Stewart can bite my Mom’s Italian natiche when it comes to these babies. We were always ready to sneak one to our bedrooms and secretly savor it, so she took precautions. The coveted rolls were sealed in Tupperware in the Amana, and the kitchen could only be reached from our rooms via the dining room. Mom, a light sleeper, placed a heavy dining chair, with a loud bell attached, in the doorway to the kitchen. Move it one millimeter and that bell clanged. But nothing stopped Mikey!
Mom heard a peculiar swooshing sound in the middle of the night. She tip-toed to the source and in the dark kitchen saw Mikey’s little feet through the bottom rungs of the dining chair. He was on his back, scooting Mission Impossible-style through the legs of that chair—no bell rang! Mom went around to the door leading back to his bedroom and waited. He got his roll, placed it on his pajama-clad chest, scooted back, and proceeded with his prize to his room, where he encountered Mom and her basilisk stare. “Was it worth it?” she quietly asked. Years later, I asked Mike the same question. His answer, “Hell, yes!” To be fair to Mom, she let him eat his trophy.
Of course, where there are gifts, there’s gift wrap and boxes. Mother has wrapping down to a torture. Don’t ever let her help you move. I unwrapped huge soccer-size balls of newsprint to find a single teacup at the center. She could have had a great future with the CIA—or maybe the Mafia. The postman just delivered her gifts to us this year. God help us, every one!
*Apologies to Mr. Clement Clark Moore.
Ariel Waterman’s motto is if you can’t wrap with the big elves, stay out from under the tree. Send gift cards via her editor at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Dec 23-30, 2010.