As these things are prone to happen, Mrs. Claus headed off
to the store in search of the children’s prizes without a plan in place to
ensure their arrival at our home having been pre-assembled. Furthermore, Mrs. Claus didn’t tell Santa
that it was his job to complete the assembly until the day before his
anticipated arrival. And while nobody
truly knows the exact day of Santa’s
birth, around our home, it’s common knowledge that the day before Christmas
(also known as Benmas) is the birthday of Mr. Dismukes, who had been
conscripted to fulfill the duties of the true Mr. Claus. I had no desire to build anything on my
birthday, let alone a bicycle. So I spent
the better part of my morning lamenting the fact that a completely unassembled
bicycle awaited me in our garage. But,
as always, one look into the bright blue eyes of my then youngest daughter
caused every reservation I had about the daunting task that lay before me to
crumble like a stale biscuit. After all,
what kind of Santa would I be if let down this precious little girl. So I made my way out to the garage and began
the monumental task.
As I entered my workshop, I informed Mrs. Claus to keep the kids occupied lest they be tempted to meddle and discover the true identity of their favorite superhero. I cursed under my breath as I tore open the box that held the millions of microscopic particles that, once fully assembled, would comprise my daughter’s soon-to-be favorite new bicycle. I dumped everything onto the ground in search of something resembling an instruction manual and found only a single sheet of paper with some Chinese characters in the top margin, followed by a cartoon of a bicycle magically assembling itself. I rolled my eyes and cursed some more as I started piecing together the bike, frame by frame of the menacing Chinese cartoon.
It’s common knowledge in our family that I am not the most
handy person around. It’s also widely
accepted that certain projects, such as installing ceiling fans, putting up
sunscreens, hanging crown molding and (thanks to this specific incident)
assembling bicycles, are likely to present me with enough frustration to push
me beyond my limitations and are likely to be accompanied by loud grumblings
and intermittent profanity. So Mrs.
Claus decided to steer clear of the garage on this fine Christmas Eve.
After several rounds of banging and yelling hailing from
Santa’s workshop, Mrs. Claus decided to send one of the elves into the garage
to inquire as to what kind of sandwich Santa wanted for lunch, instead of
coming herself. It’s not exactly clear
to me now why Mrs. Claus didn’t think through the ramifications of sending an
elf into Santa’s workshop where it would be discovered by that same elf that
Santa wasn’t actually the one building her present, but this Mr. Claus has
never truly been able to understand his Mrs.
Nevertheless, at some point during the construction of the bike, I
looked up to see a pair of loving blue eyes, though slightly bewildered,
looking at me, followed by a precious little voice that asked, “Daddy, Mommy
wants to know if you want ham or turkey.”
Now before you go wringing your hands and assuming that
Christmas was ruined for a 3 year old girl, you should consider a couple of
things, as I did in the wake of that horrible moment. First of all, while our eyes could clearly
see each other as she stood in the doorway and I sat on the opposite corner of
the garage, there were several piles of boxes and assorted junk between us. So it was entirely possible, as I reasoned in
that moment, that she never actually saw what I was building. Furthermore, this story is about Emily – my most
preoccupied child. Emily has always
lived in her own little world. She’s now
9 and comically refers to her own land of make believe as “Lou-Lou Land” (named after her middle name, Louella), a place
she’s frequented since she emerged from the womb. She has the potential to walk right by an
elephant in an otherwise empty room and miss it if her mind is on something
else. So I further reasoned that she was
so pre-occupied by turkey or ham that she never thought twice about what I was
building beneath the pile of boxes and assorted junk.
I went in to eat lunch.
I glared at Mrs. Claus and sarcastically thanked her for sending Emily,
of all people, into the garage to inquire about my lunch order. She gasped and covered her mouth as the
realization of what she had just done smacked her upside the head. But Emily said nothing or gave any indication
that anything was out of the ordinary.
After lunch I finished the bike, and soon it was time to
begin the Benmas festivities. We opened
presents, we had cake, but Emily said nothing.
We went out to eat that night at Mr. Claus’s favorite restaurant –
Carrabba’s – and still, Emily said nothing.
We came home and began focusing our attention on Christmas itself. We read the story of Jesus’ birth to the kids
and discussed the true meaning of Christmas.
We then spread “reindeer food” out on our front lawn in hopes of giving
Santa’s magical creatures a little snack as they paused at our house. We each opened 1 present and then tucked the
kids into bed. Still, Emily said
nothing.
She hadn’t noticed a thing! Bullet dodged and Christmas saved!
The next morning, we were awakened by 2 very excited
children ready to go see what Santa had brought them. At our house, Mom and Dad have to be roused
before anyone is allowed to see what Santa left behind, and for some reason,
our kids have never questioned this silly rule.
So we walked to the den as a family, and Emily’s face lit up like the
Christmas tree itself when she saw her shiny new bicycle in the middle of the floor. She ran to it, climbed aboard and began
riding all over the house. She was as
happy then as I have ever seen her, not once questioning the bike’s
origins. The kids spent the next 2 hours
opening presents, calling relatives and playing with their new toys as Mrs.
Claus and I soaked in the moment and eventually prepared a big breakfast for
the family.
The excitement of the morning soon waned, and we enjoyed a
quiet breakfast as a family. Halfway
through our holiday meal, little three year old Emily piped up and said to me
as I sipped my coffee, “Daddy, I know that Santa didn’t bring me that bicycle
because I saw you building it yesterday.”
Pppppppppppffffffffffffft, went the air out of my Christmas
spirit balloon now hanging limp and lifeless over the breakfast table.
“What?” I asked incredulously, “no, you don’t understand!” I
had no idea where I was going, but I had already started going there. Half panicked and half curious as to how I
would salvage the moment, I listened to myself go on, “See, honey, I didn’t
want to tell you kids this but… well… Santa and I are friends. We’ve known each other for years. And I told him a long time ago if he ever
needed any help to just let me know. And
this year, he’s been sick a lot, so he needed some help. He called me up last week and asked if I
wouldn’t mind building your bike for him, and I told him that I had the day off
on Christmas Eve and that he could just bring it by the house early…”
I rambled on and on, but amazingly, my little girl hung on
every word. Anyone else would have
needed a shovel, but not my Emily. She
wanted so desperately to believe, that she extended me the benefit of the doubt
at every turn. And when my story was
complete, Christmas had just been elevated to a whole new place in her
eyes. After all, not every kid could say
that their Daddy was friends with the Big Man himself!
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