Waiting on Santa
The cookies have been baked (they’re surprisingly edible this year) and set out for Santa. The stockings have been hung and the magic key left on the doorknob (what? How else is Santa supposed to get into an apartment building with no chimneys?) Both The Christmas Story and A Visit From Saint Nicholas have been read and the children are tucked all snug in their beds (resplendent in their brand new Christmas jammies). No visions of sugarplums here though. Not yet.
Right now, The Ladies are too excited to sleep. NORAD says that Santa is in Peru, and Sabrina, at least, is practically vibrating with excitement at his imminent arrival.
Such is the agony and the ecstasy of Christmas Eve. Right now I’m putting in time doing the “If you don’t sleep, he won’t come” dance. Once The Ladies finally succumb, I’ll be able to get down to the real work of Christmas: breaking into those impenetrable boxes, undoing those interminable twist ties, and inserting enough batteries to power a small third world nation, and, of course, dealing with the dreaded “some assembly required.” Not really what I want to be doing during the wee hours of Christmas morning, but I’ve learned through harsh experience that I’d rather do it now, in the stillness of Christmas Eve, than during the hectic rush of Christmas morning. There’s nothing quite like trying to simultaneously wrestle a Barbie from a box and an overtired toddler hopped up on Christmas magic to inspire you to find the screwdriver on Christmas Eve.
Once I finish ripping packages, deciphering instructions, and disposing of the evidence, I get to indulge in my favourite part of the Santa experience. No, not the beverage, although I enjoy that too. After I’m done the scut work, I get to fill the stockings. For me, this is Christmas. It doesn’t matter that there’s no snow this year, or that I haven’t been able to find Christmas music I like; filling the stockings fills me with the Christmas spirit every time. The hair clips, lip gloss, stuffed toys, and odds and ends that go into them are my favourite gifts. They’re the ones The Ladies didn’t ask for. The ones they didn’t even know they wanted until the pull them out of the sock. I won’t get any credit for knowing my daughters so well; it, along with all the thanks for toys lovingly chosen (and assembled) will go to the big guy in the red suit, but I’m fine with that.
I know Santa’s been under fire this year, branded as a vicious lie that will cause children to lose faith in the parents who perpetrate it, but I do not agree with that assessment. I believed in Santa the Man until I was 12 years old. When I finally entered the inner circle of adult knowledge I didn’t feel betrayed that my parents had lied to me for over a decade; I felt incredibly loved and blessed that they had allowed me to live with magic in my life for so long. As an adult waiting to sneak presents under the tree so that I can pass them off as rewards from a world travellling elf, I believe in Santa the myth. I believe that magic is a right of all children, that the ability to believe is a gift, and I feel blessed that I can pass that on to my children.
If only they would go to sleep so that I can get on with it.