Dear Spike:
You were confused. That much was certain.
"Did Santa Claus come to your house on Christmas?" the restaurant hostess asked as we waited for our friends to arrive for breakfast this morning.
"No," you replied, shaking your head and clearly perplexed — and maybe a bit terrified — by the notion that the white-bearded fat man would make a house call. "He didn't."
Your relationship with Santa Claus is not substantially different that your relationship with Mickey Mouse. He's a character. A guy in the movies. A fairytale.
He doesn't know when you are sleeping. He doesn't know when you're awake. He doesn't climb down your chimney with a bag of toys. And he doesn't leave a lump of coal in your stocking when you've been naughty.
He might do all those things for other kids. And there's nothing wrong with that. But we've chosen to celebrate a slightly simpler version of Christmas, one that doesn't include the guy in the big red suit as anything more than just one of many symbols of Christmas — no more important than a snow flake, a candle or a tree. In our home, Santa's been sidelined.
But in doing so, it would appear, we've robbed you of a bit of cultural literacy. And so you were caught unprepared for a lot of the questions that adults ask of children in the days surrounding Christmas...
Are you going to visit Santa at the mall? What do you want Santa to bring you this year? Have you been a good girl for Santa Claus? Was Santa nice to you this year?
There's nothing wrong with those sorts of questions. For a few weeks, each year, Santa is an opportunity for adults to relate to children. He's an easy conversation starter — like the weather, the local ball club... or the works of Leo Tolstoy.
But for kids who don't celebrate Christmas — and for those who don't celebrate the St. Nick version of Christmas — it can be a bit awkward.
That's the price you pay for being different sometimes.
You'll have a lot of opportunities in this life to make decisions that set you apart from the crowd. Sometimes the decisions you make will set you so far apart that you feel like you're really not a part of the crowd at all. At times that can feel confusing. And sometimes it can feel lonely.
Alas, when you choose to dance to a different beat, sometimes you're going to be dancing all by yourself.
Just keep dancing.
If there really was a Santa Claus, I think that's what he'd tell you, too.
Love,
dad
P.S. — For Christmas this year, your mother made you a complete set of animal friends from A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh series (Pooh Bear, it might be noted, first appeared by name in a Christmas story written by Milne for London's Evening News in 1925.) You hugged each one and said, "welcome to my family." I reckon you'll be friends for a long, long time.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Monday, December 28, 2009
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
WE'RE ALL AWAKE
Dear Spike:
Merry Christmas.
You woke this morning at 5 a.m., whining and slapping your hands wildly from side to side.
As soon as your mother and I were both up, you quieted down. It was as though you were saying, “well folks, so long as we’re all awake now...”
And so I got up and made some hot cocoa and orange rolls while your mother fed you. I lit some candles while she found your Santa hat. I flipped the switch on the Brio train that circles around the tree and turned on our Bing Crosby album. She gathered a blanket and set it down by the mantle.
We all converged at the foot of the tree.
Bing crooned, “I’m dreaming...”
Outside, two-foot icicles hung from the roof.
And inside, we set to work opening our gifts.
Your mother made me a book with 12 months of family activities. In April, we’ll take a hike up Immigration Canyon. In May, we’ll take a family raft trip on the reservoir. In September, we’ll visit Arches National Park.
For her, I painted a picture of the two of you, working from a photo that I took when you were just a few months old.
You gave me a drawing — your very first with color crayons. (Someday I’m sure I’ll be able to sell it for a million bucks, but I won’t.)
I gave you a book, my first work of fiction (well, other than all that drivel I write for the newspaper each day.) It’s not quite complete yet, and my goal is to have it done by your birthday. In the meantime, I’ve given you a draft of the first six chapters. Another 20 chapters are in my computer, waiting for some minor revisions. And there’s still nine or 10 chapters in my head, waiting for inspiration. Writing this story has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And keeping it a secret from your mother has been nearly as difficult.
Your mother made you a blanket, silky on one side, fleece on the other, with ribbons and tags of all shapes and textures on the edges. You love it!
But the best gift of all was the joy we felt, sharing this day with you. I've always enjoyed Christmas, but never so much as I did this morning with you and your mother.
Thank you, my precious little girl. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
It’s 7:30 a.m. now, and we’re all back in bed. Bing has run through his entire Christmas repertoire. The Brio train has run out of steam. The candles have been snuffed out.
You’re curled up in your mother’s arms with you new blanket. She’s reading your book.
And I’m ready for a nap.
Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.
Love,
dad
Merry Christmas.
You woke this morning at 5 a.m., whining and slapping your hands wildly from side to side.
As soon as your mother and I were both up, you quieted down. It was as though you were saying, “well folks, so long as we’re all awake now...”
And so I got up and made some hot cocoa and orange rolls while your mother fed you. I lit some candles while she found your Santa hat. I flipped the switch on the Brio train that circles around the tree and turned on our Bing Crosby album. She gathered a blanket and set it down by the mantle.
We all converged at the foot of the tree.
Bing crooned, “I’m dreaming...”
Outside, two-foot icicles hung from the roof.
And inside, we set to work opening our gifts.
Your mother made me a book with 12 months of family activities. In April, we’ll take a hike up Immigration Canyon. In May, we’ll take a family raft trip on the reservoir. In September, we’ll visit Arches National Park.
For her, I painted a picture of the two of you, working from a photo that I took when you were just a few months old.
You gave me a drawing — your very first with color crayons. (Someday I’m sure I’ll be able to sell it for a million bucks, but I won’t.)
I gave you a book, my first work of fiction (well, other than all that drivel I write for the newspaper each day.) It’s not quite complete yet, and my goal is to have it done by your birthday. In the meantime, I’ve given you a draft of the first six chapters. Another 20 chapters are in my computer, waiting for some minor revisions. And there’s still nine or 10 chapters in my head, waiting for inspiration. Writing this story has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. And keeping it a secret from your mother has been nearly as difficult.
Your mother made you a blanket, silky on one side, fleece on the other, with ribbons and tags of all shapes and textures on the edges. You love it!
But the best gift of all was the joy we felt, sharing this day with you. I've always enjoyed Christmas, but never so much as I did this morning with you and your mother.
Thank you, my precious little girl. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
It’s 7:30 a.m. now, and we’re all back in bed. Bing has run through his entire Christmas repertoire. The Brio train has run out of steam. The candles have been snuffed out.
You’re curled up in your mother’s arms with you new blanket. She’s reading your book.
And I’m ready for a nap.
Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.
Love,
dad
Thursday, December 13, 2007
OUR HUMBLE TREE
Dear Spike:
We went to fetch a tree tonight. It wasn’t the most romantic of quests. We simply drove a few blocks to the local supermarket, found a decent looking fir, and threw it into the back of the wagon for the three-minute drive home. The whole process took 15 minutes, tops.
Back when I was a kid, my family used to drive up into the mountains to choose our tree at a farm. We’d pack a thermos of chili and some cornbread to eat on the way, then spend hours searching for the perfect tree. Sometimes when we thought we’d found a good one but weren’t 100 percent sure, we’d mark it with a few sticks or dead branches and move on. When we’d finally settled upon a tree — assuming no other family got to it first — my siblings and I would all take turns lying in the mud and hacking away with a saw.
Your mother tells me she had much the same experience, except her family always brought along a wide piece of cardboard to lie upon so they wouldn’t get muddy while chopping down the tree. (At least one side of your family seems to have some common sense. Let’s hope you have inherited those genes.)
However unspectacular the means of this year’s harvest may have been, I do love having a tree in our home. It fills our whole house with the rich scent of pine and seems to bring a freshness to the air. Sometimes — especially late at night — I find myself just staring into the lights.
I hate the fact that “the Christmas season” starts as soon as Halloween ends. At the grocery stores, out go the Freddy Kruger masks, in come the animated Rudolf lawn statues. The radio stations play endless carols. Downtown is decked in lights and tinsel.
We prefer not to dilute our holiday cheer. Two weeks before Christmas Day, we set up our humble tree. We play a little Bing Crosby. And we place on the mantle the olive wood nativity set I picked up in Israel a few years back.
It’ll all be gone by the New Year. That way, when Christmas comes around next year, and the next, and the next, we won’t be too tired of the season to appreciate what it means.
Love,
dad
We went to fetch a tree tonight. It wasn’t the most romantic of quests. We simply drove a few blocks to the local supermarket, found a decent looking fir, and threw it into the back of the wagon for the three-minute drive home. The whole process took 15 minutes, tops.
Back when I was a kid, my family used to drive up into the mountains to choose our tree at a farm. We’d pack a thermos of chili and some cornbread to eat on the way, then spend hours searching for the perfect tree. Sometimes when we thought we’d found a good one but weren’t 100 percent sure, we’d mark it with a few sticks or dead branches and move on. When we’d finally settled upon a tree — assuming no other family got to it first — my siblings and I would all take turns lying in the mud and hacking away with a saw.
Your mother tells me she had much the same experience, except her family always brought along a wide piece of cardboard to lie upon so they wouldn’t get muddy while chopping down the tree. (At least one side of your family seems to have some common sense. Let’s hope you have inherited those genes.)
However unspectacular the means of this year’s harvest may have been, I do love having a tree in our home. It fills our whole house with the rich scent of pine and seems to bring a freshness to the air. Sometimes — especially late at night — I find myself just staring into the lights.
I hate the fact that “the Christmas season” starts as soon as Halloween ends. At the grocery stores, out go the Freddy Kruger masks, in come the animated Rudolf lawn statues. The radio stations play endless carols. Downtown is decked in lights and tinsel.
We prefer not to dilute our holiday cheer. Two weeks before Christmas Day, we set up our humble tree. We play a little Bing Crosby. And we place on the mantle the olive wood nativity set I picked up in Israel a few years back.
It’ll all be gone by the New Year. That way, when Christmas comes around next year, and the next, and the next, we won’t be too tired of the season to appreciate what it means.
Love,
dad
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
FAR MORE MEANINGFUL
Dear Spike:
A few years ago, with a honeymoon trip to Spain pending, your mother and I decided that we wouldn’t spend money on Christmas presents for one another. Instead, we agreed, we would simply make each other presents, setting a small limit on any purchased materials.
We’d really only done it to save money para museos en Madrid, hoteles en Toledo y tapas en Segovia, but the gifts we shared that Christmas were heartfelt, touching and sincere. And I think we realized that we’d done something rather special — if only accidentally.
As newlyweds, we didn’t have many holiday traditions of our own. And so we decided to start one: Each year, we make gifts for one another and donate as much as we can to a cause that had touched our lives, in some way, over the previous year.
I think it has really turned into a lovely tradition. A few years ago, we bought books for the children at a school I visited in the impoverished highlands of Ecuador. The following year, we paid rent for an Iraqi family that had been left homeless by the war. And last year we helped fund a schools project for girls in Afghanistan that was being organized by a close friend.
Meanwhile, I’ve received from your mother a handmade motorcycle tour book, a beautiful knit scarf and a lovely and fun cookbook full of recipes we enjoy making together — gifts that have been far more meaningful and important to me than anything she could have purchased at the mall.
Even before you were born, I had been contemplating what I would make you this Christmas. A few weeks after you arrived, I decided what it would be. And last month I began work on your gift.
I want it to be special, but it has been slow going. And the sight, this week, of snow on the mountains has left me feverish to move faster.
I know you won’t expect it to be perfect. And indeed, it is the imperfections of what we make by hand — what the Japanese call wabi-sabi — that makes our tradition so special to me.
Still, I want you to love it. And I’m working hard to make sure you will.
Love,
dad
A few years ago, with a honeymoon trip to Spain pending, your mother and I decided that we wouldn’t spend money on Christmas presents for one another. Instead, we agreed, we would simply make each other presents, setting a small limit on any purchased materials.
We’d really only done it to save money para museos en Madrid, hoteles en Toledo y tapas en Segovia, but the gifts we shared that Christmas were heartfelt, touching and sincere. And I think we realized that we’d done something rather special — if only accidentally.
As newlyweds, we didn’t have many holiday traditions of our own. And so we decided to start one: Each year, we make gifts for one another and donate as much as we can to a cause that had touched our lives, in some way, over the previous year.
I think it has really turned into a lovely tradition. A few years ago, we bought books for the children at a school I visited in the impoverished highlands of Ecuador. The following year, we paid rent for an Iraqi family that had been left homeless by the war. And last year we helped fund a schools project for girls in Afghanistan that was being organized by a close friend.
Meanwhile, I’ve received from your mother a handmade motorcycle tour book, a beautiful knit scarf and a lovely and fun cookbook full of recipes we enjoy making together — gifts that have been far more meaningful and important to me than anything she could have purchased at the mall.
Even before you were born, I had been contemplating what I would make you this Christmas. A few weeks after you arrived, I decided what it would be. And last month I began work on your gift.
I want it to be special, but it has been slow going. And the sight, this week, of snow on the mountains has left me feverish to move faster.
I know you won’t expect it to be perfect. And indeed, it is the imperfections of what we make by hand — what the Japanese call wabi-sabi — that makes our tradition so special to me.
Still, I want you to love it. And I’m working hard to make sure you will.
Love,
dad
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