A Little Thing for Mom: Christmas 2010

Mom, you would be proud. For as much as I want to loathe the holidays, and for as much hassle your kids gave you for being so enthusiastic about Christmas, well, I think I got the bug.

Having a three year old makes it nearly impossible not to get caught up in the mess. I'd been driving all over town to make sure his holiday requests were filled, and just when I thought I nailed the stuff he wanted, he tells the clerk at the liquor store that he can't wait for Santa to bring him a robot. Robot? I asked him what happened to his desire for a race car and a tractor and he denied it ever happened. Well I have two wrapped boxes that beg to differ. Damn daycare.

He won't be spoiled. I swear. But when you have a kid who for the last month has been running a narrative on exactly what happens on Christmas day--"Santa is coming to our house. You can't cry around Santa. Otto, no crying around Santa. Santa is my best friend"--you want to make it work. Besides that, Santa is the greatest behavioral tool ever, and since we've shamelessly used the benevolent Father Christmas to blackmail our child, we'd better make good on it.

Now, mom, you used to get so excited around the holidays. Your kids would roll their eyes when, as teenagers, we'd emerge on Christmas morning to your great details of Santa's visit. You'd have the half-eaten cookie, the carrot nibbled by Rudolph and reindeer tracks made by the lower leg of an elk dad got in the third season. It was a little hard not to make some fun of you.

Some local children are a little over it.

But there I was this morning at my neighbor's door. I was delivering to her some of Sarah's famous 7-layer bars, and she was telling me a story that she thought was so funny. It goes something like this: she'd been sharing with everyone at her work about her neighbor, this guy who brought over this three-year-old boy to see Santa.  Turns our her best friend's father, a guy who plays Santa (and well I might add), agreed to make a surprise visit. Of all the people and kids at their house, the neighbor guy was the most excited to see him. 

Yes, that's me.

I remember walking away that evening wondering if I'd been extra loud. Then they showed me some of the video of Quin on the big guy's lap, and all I could hear was me going on about "Santa!  Quin, it's Santa!" and "Wow, it's Santa, really Santa!"

In my defense, it was priceless. Quin could only talk about how Santa is his best friend and would be visiting him soon, and then he gets to meet him a week before Christmas. It was a total surprise, and I mean how excited I got when I saw him come down the stairs. I started shouting and prompting Quin to the point that he recoiled into his shell. He was probably trying to disassociate himself from me.

But mom you got me.  I didn't care who saw me--actually I was so beside myself that I wasn't even aware that people were staring and wondering if I'd been dropped off by a compact bus. It was the lack of self-consciousness that made you the envy of everyone. You'd glow and whirl about the room, embarrassing your children but making every adult wish they had your zeal for life.

I can't say I'll be that guy when my boys are in their teens, but today I drove to seven (7) different Red Boxes trying to find "Winter Blast," a movie about snow removal. I guess it has big trucks clearing roads and piling up drifts in parking lots and it's a hit with the young, male set. It's such a hit that not one of the video rental kiosks had it. They advertise it at about kid level where Quin saw this picture of a plow with a fat, animated title promising all kinds of big truck action. Well I went all over town hoping to get it.

That's not something you could do raising us kids in the middle of nowhere, but I felt for a moment that thing you must have had. That thing that had you making wreathes for extra money for Christmas gifts. That thing that had you quiet the negativity and raise the specter for good. That thing...that thing that had us rolling our eyes. Because no matter what you did we always had some complaint. You drove us for hours over snowy passes and icy canyons to see grandmas and grandpas and uncles, and we griped about riding in your old, beat up hand-me-down station wagon.

You did everything to make sure there were plenty of gifts under the tree, and I recoiled when I detected that my Armitron robotic arm was a Salvation Army find.

You did everything, and the least I can do is do as much as I can. With a little a gift for you:

On about our fifth Red Box I told an upset Quin that they were simply out of Winter Blast. It wasn't his fault or my fault it was just the way it was.

There was a silence that suggested my point had sunk in, but I rejoiced too soon. Quin made eye contact with my in the rear-view mirror and said, "No, it's your fault."