Saturday, December 10, 2011

The Day I Nearly Ruined and Then Saved Christmas

Christmas is almost here, and once again, I am visited by the ghost of Christmas past.  This year, he’s taken me to the year 2005, when I had just 2 kids and things were… well… a bit quieter around our suburban Phoenix home.  Isaac was 5 and Emily was 3, and while my eldest was dead-set on getting some sort of video game from Santa, Emily asked for a shiny new bicycle.

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!