It’s the
first full week of December, and the Elf anxiety has struck according to
Facebook. I will be the first to admit that I bought into the Elf. We named our
Elf - Jingle. (I didn’t score any points for originality with that. So move on,
people.) When Jingle first arrived, I believed, truly, “This is great! I’ve got
this nailed.”
Not so much.
I sucked at
the Elf.
I forgot to
move the damn thing. It would sit for days on the dining room chandelier, dust
would settle on its little rosy cheeks. Sometimes, it would list precariously.
Then, someone would say something, and while someone else was brushing his
teeth, the Elf would magically fly somewhere else in the house. It would sit
there on the windowsill of the family room or bookshelf. Again. For. Days. But,
my little guy didn’t seem to mind. I have clear memories of him talking to the
Elf, whispering into its little ear about whatever magical message he wanted to
send back to the North Pole. So, I gave him that, at least.
Isn’t that,
really, what we are trying to do in our sublimely imperfect ways during these
weeks? We are, or at least I am, trying to create or re-create the magic of
Christmas for my children, out of the shimmering webs of the past. I grew up
pretty average middle class on Staten Island. My parents did not have a lot. My
dad was a human resources executive and spent more than one holiday holed up in
a hotel room in Manhattan negotiating some labor agreement or another for New
York hospitals, racing against a strike deadline. My mom was a
nurse and worked nights, and we butted heads furiously and often.
One of the
things, though, that my mom loved and did exceptionally well was Christmas.
Memory's gossamer filaments return to me at this time of year – how my mom
decorated our little apartment (and, later, our little house) with fresh greens
and holly and the scent of pine when I came home from school; the cookie
bake-a-thon we would have every year and the cinnamon and sugar on the butcher
block; the nativity that was carefully arranged on the bookshelf; and the
candle she left burning (okay, maybe not the safest, but I didn’t use seatbelts
as a kid, either) in the window on Christmas Eve to let any traveler know that
there was room in our home; and the music – Vince Guaraldi to Bing Crosby to
Nat King Cole.
I have tried
to echo these moments in my own home today. I have a gorgeous holiday candle I
light every night. (Hat tip, Erica Amato.) I have a bake-a-thon with the kids
and everyone gets to choose a favorite to bake. I fill my pots with greens. I
put our crèche front and center on our mantle. I play the music I loved hearing
as a kid. We do other stuff too, like going to the sing on Christmas Eve and
watching Christmas Vacation and Elf and the Polar Express over and over.
And it all
matters. I realized this the other day, when I found the Christmas music
station on the radio, and James, 12, complained about it. And, Thomas, 16, took
him to task. Later, Tom said to me, “James needs to learn. That music is
Christmas to me because that’s the music you always played when I was little.”
“Tom, that
was the music that my mom played when I was little.”
“Yeah, well,
it’s Christmas. James will figure it out.”
In this
darkest month, we go searching for the light -- the light of the
menorah, the light of the star, the light of a mother’s faith. And, who would
have ever guessed that, through all of our short-comings, our “did I really
do that” flaws, our
too rushed-to-judgment, “Just get in the car!” “I don’t know where your shoes are!” “Hello,
yes, I will drop off your clarinet.” “I don’t have time for this!” “You need
what for tomorrow?” moments, we would find perfection, forgiveness, and
redemption in a child?
One day, in
the not too distant future, our children will be standing or sitting or lying
on the floor hyperventilating about the lists and the errands, while we, God
willing, are sitting with our feet up somewhere with a view, cocktail (or cup
of tea) in hand, and memory’s web will spin for them. They will remember the thing -- that
special, magical thing -- and they'll get it. But not the Elf,
hopefully, they are smarter than that shit.
So, relax.
Light a
candle.
Bake some
cookies.
Fry some
latkes.
Make those
spring rolls and dumplings, Athena Lee, for when Chris comes home.
Mold their
memories.
These are
fleeting moments when they believe.
If all else
fails, pick up some wine.
Maybe, move
the Elf. Or not.
And, jingle
all the way.
