Christmas is a joyous time of the year, especially in our house, as it is our daughter's first Christmas. I have to admit that I am not jumping with wild anticipation over it though, and I have mentioned this to my customers and friends who ask.
"Aren't you excited about the baby's first Christmas?"
"Well, yeah, sure I am..."
"You don't sound like it."
In truth, I am excited; I hate to downplay it, but it just is not here as a holiday yet. This is our busiest time at the cafe, there really is not much in the way of down time to imagine what Christmas morning will look like in our little duplex, with the tiny "Charlie Brown" Christmas tree, which I only just put up. My neighbors have had every single blessed ornament, light, twinkle, nativity, ornament, bow, inflatable piece of crap in their yards since Halloween... and I can appreciate that. And it will remain there, undoubtedly until well after the 2010 New Year arrives, in all of its wrinkled, deflated and wind-sun damaged glory.
"What are you getting your daughter for her first Christmas?" They melt.
"Not much - just the paper, boxes and bows. And then we will throw them out."
Scrooge. They wrinkle their noses, and scratch their heads.
Our daughter is not even one year old. She can not (and maybe I am just assuming this) comprehend the holiday, the presents, The Christ Child, the creepy, bearded moron at the mall in the filthy, red costume, who smells of testosterone and booze. Presents are just going to be tossed aside for the crinkling sounds of the paper, which will amuse her the most, and her clothes will be in the washing machine and gently placed in her drawer to make room for her crawling and walking and screaming at a pitch and decibel that only the dog can appreciate.
On Christmas Eve, when the lights are turned down low, with the exception of our lowly, inherited Charlie Brown Christmas tree, I will perform a Harper family tradition, with the soft glow of the radio playing Silent Night in the background, my wife and I will curl up on the sofa, with our daughter in her soft, nurturing, maternal hands, I will read about the first Christmas - that wondrous sacrifice of the very beginnings of Christendom, and then as her young eyes melt away into a gentle slumber I will regale her with the story my father read to my brother and I - The Night Before Christmas - where the creepy Santa Clause is not at the mall, but in the narrator's house.
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