When
I was a little girl, this was the most magical time of the year. My father made
it so. On Christmas Eve, I would go to sleep under duress because I was assured
Santa would not come if anyone in the house was awake. While I slept, our
living room was transformed into an enchanted wonderland. Balloons, streamers
and confetti blanketed the room, toys were strewn everywhere, stockings on the
mantelpiece bulged with treats, Christmas music played. The cookies, milk and
carrots left for Santa and his reindeer were conveniently gone. Only a few
crumbles remained. I was told that jingle bells rang, along with a resounding
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” to signal Santa’s presence and departure, but I never heard either.
I did not realize then, that of course, many children were not fortunate enough
to have this abundance.
I maintained this tradition for my children. I could not have done otherwise. One
might argue that this is a gaudy and overly lavish display; that this might
engender selfishness and lack of understanding of the season. Nothing could be
less true. To ameliorate the overwhelming profusion, my father would allow us
to pick three toys to keep and would lock the rest away. Once a month, we were allowed
to pick one toy. That way, everything was appreciated, enjoyed and lasted all
year. I did the same.
If
this was spoiling my children, it didn’t take. They are both the kindest, most
considerate, generous and loving individuals I have ever known. I don’t know if they will
continue this tradition with their children. I hope so. In that way, my father
still lives and shares Christmas with us.
This
is an especially bittersweet time because I miss him so much. I can see him
sitting in the corner, watching, laughing, loving every minute of our joy.
Merry Christmas, Daddy.
Merry
Christmas, All.
Illustration by Lynn Bywaters
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