I found out I was pregnant with my firstborn a week before Thanksgiving, and as I drove to work that day, I saw the mall marquee with the words, “Photos with Santa!” A gush of hormonal tears sprang instantly to my eyes at the thought: in a year, I’d be a mother of a sweet little baby, someone definitely on The Nice List, perched like an actual angel from heaven on Santa’s lap.
Reality turned out to be a whole ‘nuther story. Age 1: Jayna cried. Age 2: Jayna screamed. Age 3: Just picture something from a horror movie.
As anyone with a scrap of sanity would, my husband and I began to rethink the “Photos with Santa!” idea. But at the same time, we felt that the “right jolly old elf” was at least due some positive lip service. Even though neither of us had ever really believed in Santa thanks to older, know-it-all sisters, it just seemed right that our firstborn should, at the very least, not think of him as Evil Incarnate. Driving away from yet another disastrous Santa encounter, Matt said, “You know, Jayna, Santa brings you toys.”
“That’s okay,” Jayna replied in a meek voice. “I don’t need any.” Matt and I looked at each other with wide, incredulous eyes. Who was this strange child saying she didn’t want toys??! Having been greedy kids ourselves, how could this be our offspring?! And then, suddenly, we experienced a simultaneous stroke of genius. He smiled, I nodded, and together, we launched into some “good Santa” songs.
“Oh, you’d better watch out! You’d better not pout…” Our voices died out quickly as we realized the words didn’t really suit the mission, especially, “He sees you when you’re sleeping! He knows when you’re awake!” It was kind of creepy, now that we thought about it.
We tried again. “Up on the rooftop reindeer pause…”
Jayna stopped us. “Wait. Reindeer have paws?” she asked.
We laughed and explained that no, reindeer have hooves, but this was a pause, like waiting. Starting over, we made it all the way through the song, and even caught her bobbing her little blonde head, a timid smile on her face. Progress, at last. But the next afternoon, I walked into the living room and caught Jayna crawling on the hearth and peering up the chimney.
“What are you doing?” I asked. She turned to face me with tears pooled in her big blue eyes and said, “I thought I heard a ‘click click click.’”
My heart went out to her. The girl was genuinely terrified. But it still took one more disastrous tussle, wrangling a screaming Jello Child Jayna onto Santa’s lap around my beach-ball-sized pregnant belly before we began to really see things from Jayna’s perspective. 364 days a year, we talked about “stranger danger” and then one day, we were suddenly fine with some bearded old creeper in a red velvet suit tip-toeing around the living room. We even lured him in by leaving a plate of cookies and a cold glass of milk!
The problem was we’d fallen for the lie that childhood has to be magical, and it's solely the parents who must create the magic. This lie really lays it on thick in the month of December and is certainly not limited to photos with Santa. You absolutely must bake cookies–dozens and dozens of cookies! (Store bought is shameful, by the way, so forget that!) How about sleigh rides? Let’s go to The Nutcracker! Decorate handmade ornaments! Don’t forget to move your Elf on the Shelf! It’s the hap-happiest season of all, and if we’re not completely wiped out and broke at the end of it, we did it wrong.
Look, it’s fine if you’re Buddy the Elf, and you truly love doing every single holiday thing. I applaud you.
But also.
Might I suggest that you don’t need to do it all? I don’t say the following lightly because as the mother of five kids now, and even though Jayna is older than I was when I had her, a lot of what I know about mothering is how much I don’t know. I KNOW this, though: magic, or wonder, cannot be forced or created. Kids do it on their own.
The first time I learned this was the year we gave up pushing the idea of Santa. We turned away from the line for pictures with him, and Jayna leaned her head against my pregnant belly and laughed as her little sister gently boxed her ear. Singing carols with friends, I saw true joy on her face as voices wrapped harmony around the melody she sang. When we went to the Christmas Eve service, she watched in amazement as one tiny, flickering flame ignited another until a dark church was filled with a warm glow, and we carried that light out into the cold, inky night.
Years later, I walked into the bedroom of my youngest daughter one night in December and found her still in an elf suit I bought by accident at Daiso. (Long story.) She’d worn it for five days straight, despite my cajoling otherwise, and she sat doing a paint-by-stickers picture in the glow of a color-changing lamp. I discreetly snapped a picture so I could remember that moment forever. My breath caught and my eyes stung because even though I’d seen it time and again, her face said it all with perfect clarity.
This moment wasn’t brought to her by any of my crafty manipulations or packing the schedule with a “December Bucket List.” This was as happy as she could be. This was magic, and she had made it all by herself.
I laughed out loud several times, cried at least twice, and marveled at your wisdom, admittedly often taught by your children, but wisdom you in turn pass on to me. Thank you for all of it, and thank you for bringing so much magic into my life.
Thanks to your "shameless plug" on Instagram (aka a cute video from a talented friend), I was so beautifully reminded of the meaning of the holidays and more importantly, relishing in the true magic of my own little girls.