This post is not seasonally appropriate, unless you live in my home where it’s Christmas all year round.
My three-year-old daughter, Ailsa, has been Christmas-obsessed almost from birth. Her favorite book for at least her first year and a half was a soft Christmas Alphabet book. She’d pore over it forever. And then Puppy arrived when she was six months old, with his Santa hat, barking Christmas carols, and he became my second child and her inseparable companion. She loves red, she loves winter, she loves snow, she loves presents, Rudolph, Santa, Frosty, trees, decorations, lights, ornaments, candy canes, and everything Christmassy. With an insane passion.
A few days before Christmas 2008, my mother-in-law gave me two tickets to see The Nutcracker. She dropped me and Ailsa off in downtown San Jose. Ailsa was wearing her pretty green Christmas dress and a red hat I brought from Nepal and shiny black shoes. It was an abbreviated Nutcracker, a 45-minute version for kids. Perfect. We were delighted.
Afterwards, we walked around Christmasland (where Carla walks in Canary) to look at all the decorations. We wandered for quite awhile, looking at all the decorated trees. I think we rode a carousel.
And then we came to Santa’s house, which I’d never paid much attention to, and there were about ten people standing in line. A sign said Santa would be back soon, so I asked Ailsa if she wanted to wait, and she did. But it was four-ish and her feet hurt (shoes too small) and she was very tired, so she went to a bench and sat while I held our place. And we waited and waited. And waited. I finally asked someone if they knew when it would open, and it was still going to be about fifteen minutes. I asked her again if she wanted to wait, and she did. She held onto my hands and spun around and twirled and dazzled the people who watched her, with her beauty and her Ailsaness. And finally the line started moving. It probably took about forty-five minutes all told. Ailsa was sleepy and distracted, and I kept thinking what a silly mistake itwas to force her to go sit on Santa’s lap. I thought she’d probably be scared of him once we got in there.
When it was our turn, Ailsa entered, looked at Santa and positively beamed. She lowered her head and started to giggle, and then she hopped four times toward him, spread her arms out wide and smiled as she walked slowly into him. The Santa was pretty taken aback, I could tell. So were the elven volunteers. I bought a camera (disposable, STILL haven’t developed the photos) and took some pictures of her with Santa. The Elves took a photo of me with them too. Ailsa told him what she wanted (a red snowglobe with Santa in it) and gave him a big, parting hug and left with a candy cane.
It was unreal. A Christmas miracle. I cried a little. It was like she’d come home. Oh, Santa, my old friend. I’ve been waiting for decades to see you again. And she giggled throughout. Just shining.
One Comment
I’m enjoying the posts about motherhood every bit as much as I do the ones about cinema. Blogging about one’s children is overdone and usually poorly done, but you bring to it an understatedly poetic expression from which love drips in big thirst-quenching drops. It’s incredibly moving, and is so without the smallest trace of overripeness.