Boy is it easy to get into the Christmas spirit when you have kids. Shoot, I wouldn’t even mind wrapping a present or two, and normally I would choose dengue fever over such a chore.
But there’s something magical in the air. Something wonderful and festive.
Something like I haven’t experienced since, well, since I was a kid. Back then Christmas was always magical and exciting. It was pop-the-elastic-in-your-waist-band exciting, and everything about it was a thrill, from the Christmas music to the wall-to-wall decorations to the 98-degree weather we would get in Tampa.
Now I’m getting to experience it as an adult through the joy of my little 2-year-old daughter, who is suddenly old enough to take it all in and really appreciate the wonder.
Of course, like most children, she’s absolutely petrified of Santa Claus. Why is it that every kid who was ever born is terrified of Santa? My girl will walk up to a rabid bull with flames coming out of its nose and lightning shooting from its horns, but she won’t go near a jolly fat man dressed in red with a white beard.
Now she’s even scared of mini Santa Clauses. In fact, the smaller they are — say a little doll that chuckles and says “ho-ho-ho” — the more likely she is to point her finger like scolding a dog and bark, “No!”
It’s as if she’s offended, and even disappointed in us for letting an elf midget who probably wants to steal our computer into the house. Understood. No Santa Claus.
She’s into lights, though. Check that — she’s addicted to lights. The Christmas tree must be on as soon as she rises. She demands it, and tells the tree goodnight before bed, and gives it a good morning hug before she’ll even acknowledge me.
Never was there a more wonderful face than that of a child with dazzled, glossed-over eyes from a lit Christmas tree. It’s a priceless smile, and I love to see it.
Having a child means I get to be a kid all over again. Some of my fondest Christmas memories were of my father traipsing around Tampa, showing off the magic of the city’s gaudiest, tackiest, most over-the-top neighborhoods, all decked out in their lights and assorted ornamentation. Now I get to do it, and on a recent trip home, I couldn’t have been more thrilled than to drive about the neighborhoods listening to the “ooohs” and “wows” from the back seat.
Lights! Is there anything more wonderful?
Putting up our own on the house was fun. Nothing beats an approving, “Yay dada!” as they spring to life.
Yay me!
Singing is a different story. Never, NEVER, did I expect to be out of practice when it comes to Christmas music. But you realize how rusty you are while on a road trip as you find yourself trying to entertain a little girl who is considering busting out of her car seat and climbing onto the roof.
How could I forget such classics like “Deck the Halls.” It should be burned into my brain from the 13 million times I sang it as a kid.
Yet, my version went something like this: “Deck the halls with bowels of holly … fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la … ’tis the season to be jolly … fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la … dawn me now my discount apparel … fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la … going to the mall is filled with peril … fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.”
There must be eight things wrong with that.
But no matter, it’s all part of the fun. All part of the joy. And it’s a joyous time of year with a 2-year-old. Just as long as the lights don’t burn out and we leave all the little Santa figures wrapped up snug in their boxes. Never trust a midget Santa.