Christmas Magic, Part 1

I do believe I have experienced a bit of Christmas magic. Scoff if you must and get it out of the way.

Our Christmas Eve bordered on unbearable. Hot Firefighter Husband was working, and I did not handle it well. It seemed completely unreasonable that he was forced to save lives and put out fires while I bore sole responsibility for my own children on this special day.

I planned a day of holiday activities like making candied pecans and wrapping presents, and that was a mistake. The Pterodactyl just wanted to watch “The Polar Express” over and over again; the Tyrant unrolled the wrapping paper and ran around the house waving it behind her like a kite. The Diva, fearful of Santa’s hidden cameras, tried to solve everyone’s problems with no success. At one point the Tyrant leaped on top of my new fake Van Gogh painting and almost burst through the canvas, and I screamed so loud my throat hurt.

I was missing my parents, I guess, and feeling hurt at the mythic notion that everyone in the world was having a beautiful fantastical wondrous day except me. I wanted to be with my family. That is otherwise known as Feeling Sorry For Myself. Also I was exhausted from keeping the younger children from maiming each other on Christmas Eve. I invoked the wrath of Santa about 45 times that day, and even pretended to write an email to the Big Guy.

But then a Holiday Miracle occurred. My friend Em invited us to her house to share some Christmas love and drink. She welcomed me and my three bouncy kids into her lovely, subdued household of six adults and one well-behaved darling 10-year-old child. And finally, after a full day of yelling and contagious frustration, we were imbued with joyful spirit. Em took the children caroling in her neighborhood. One of the adults helped the Pterodactyl rake up all the hay that the homeowner had just spread around the yard, then someone gave him a dollar for having done it. Nobody complained when the Tyrant ate all the peanuts, chewed them up and spit them back in the bowl.

What an act of charity. Em invited us to stay for dinner, but this Mama knows her children’s limits and instead stopped at the McDonald’s Drive-Thru on the way home.

The children were exhausted and asleep by 8:30 pm, so I was able to put out the Santa presents early. I wrapped gifts while watching “A Christmas Story.” I went to sleep feeling much better.

On Christmas morning, the children woke me at 7. Santa had covered all the gifts with sheets so they could not see what they’d gotten until Husband came home from his shift at 8:30.

I put the kids on the couch and started a fire by pushing the “on” button on the fireplace remote. I made some coffee, turned on the Christmas tree lights and put on some classical holiday music, and we sat on the couch by the fire and rifled through our stockings, which Santa had thoughtfully packed full in anticipation of the 90-minute wait for Dad.

Then, like the Grinch, my heart grew and grew. The moment contained such a purity of spirit, such utter contentment, that I found myself near tears for an hour. I spend so much energy wishing for things – fewer wrinkles, more money, fewer meltdowns, more vacations – and it struck me that at that moment, there was no place on earth my children wanted to be other than right there, on that couch, with me. Waiting for their dad. It’s mightily humbling, particularly for a mom who has adopted her children. It’s our fervent responsibility to want these children, to be their world – but it’s also our responsibility to make them want us, and to make them our world. In that moment, these thoughts merged and united and configured themselves into a new version of “family” for me. I’ve always told people it’s hard to live in a place with no family, and it’s true that I wish my parents or sisters lived closer. But of course I don’t live with no family nearby. My children, my husband, my dog, my home – my life is bursting at the seams with family.

It was the best Christmas ever. The Pterodactyl enjoyed his age-inappropriate electric train for a full 10 hours before washing the locomotive in the kitchen sink. He used his remote fart machine to fill the house with gas every 15 minutes. No one got dressed until 5 p.m. except the Tyrant, who wore her new pink tutu all day. Even then, we only dressed in sweats to walk around the block. The Diva practiced putting her new earrings in and out, and played an entire game of Life with her new doll, Callista. “That way I sort of get to take every turn!”

I made my grandmother’s housekeeper’s famous Brown Spaghetti and Meatballs for dinner, and did it right. No one mentioned television all day. Husband compensated for buying me men’s slippers for my birthday by giving me a beautiful tabletop water fountain and a Flip video recorder.

But the best present I received was the day itself, nearly perfect because of – not in spite of – its imperfections. No fancy food demanded accolades, no place to go insisted on a schedule. We were limited only by our tolerance for one another, and our ability to understand that we are all we need. My children learned that lesson long ago. Now, finally, I guess I’ve learned it, too. Merry Christmas.