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This won’t be Wendy’s first Christmas—she turned two in October—but it’ll be the first one that will register as more than just a series of unconnected brightly colored events. Last year, Santa was a stranger whom her two big sisters seemed to know. This year, Wendy will know him too. Santa needn’t ask her what she wants for Christmas, though, because she believes everything she sees is already “MINE!” Wendy has a keen appreciation of infants, so Baby Jesus will also be joining her circle of friends, although it’ll be another year or two before she understands why He lives in a barn on the lawn of the First Baptist Church. On the downside, this might be the year she notices what an awful lot of time we spend in the car at Christmas time. We drive an hour each way to my in-laws’ house to spend Christmas Eve with them. That night, while other children are tying their bedclothes into knots as they restlessly squirm their way toward Christmas morning, my kids just slump into oblivion in the back seat on the long ride home. On Christmas Day, we drive another couple hours in order to spend some time with my father. Our Christmas is like the one experienced by the Three Wise Men; it’s a journey—the main difference being that we bring the babe with us. I only hope her yuletide memories will be of making cookies with her mom and sisters, coming downstairs to the excitement of Christmas morning, and sharing a few hours of her precious youth with her grandparents. Otherwise, Wendy’s reminiscences could read like a kidnap victim’s testimony to the cops: “I was strapped helpless in the back seat, and I couldn’t tell where they were taking me. I seem to remember riding for a long time, past a lot of colored lights. Two other captives were beside me. They weren’t blindfolded, but they kept asking, ‘Are we there yet?’“ Other than that, we do Christmas very nicely, my wife and I concocting our own traditions from the warm and happy holidays that our parents provided for us as kids. I can remember only one persistent flaw in the Christmases of my childhood. It was my mom’s annual reading of a short story called A Miserable Merry Christmas (by Lincoln Steffens) in advance of the big day. After 35 years, I remember the story line because it was about a little boy who, like me, wanted a real pony more than anything else in the world. He told his folks, “If I can’t have a pony for Christmas, give me nothing.” On Christmas morning, he awoke to NO PRESENTS. He figures his folks have called his bluff and does much quiet weeping. But then along comes a man to deliver the pony. The first few times I heard it, I thought this was a great story because it ended so happily for the little boy, and it seemed to hold forth a promise to any child who wants a pony that badly. By the time I was 10, I had gotten over feeling glad for the boy. Hearing his success story was as satisfying as peering in a restaurant window to watch people eat. The new message that emerged had been expressed years earlier by Josef Stalin, who said, “When a pony is out of the question, you’ll be happier if you want a baseball glove or a bike.” (I’m paraphrasing his words of grim practicality; what he actually said was more like: “Happiness is the maximum agreement of reality and desire.”) So I shouldn’t complain; even a holiday tradition that fails to delight can advance a child’s understanding of how life works. I’m not sure how our endless motoring after grandparents will shake out for my daughters. Maybe they’ll absorb a thought that ought to be stamped on each baby’s birth certificate: “Enjoy the ride.” Some people will build something wonderful upon whatever imperfect foundations their parents lay down for them. As for the others, they can come and lick their wounds at a new support group that I’m founding this yuletide season. I’m calling it: Adult Children Without Ponies. There are more of us than you’d think. |
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