I remember Christmas Eve when I was a kid. I would try to do anything possible to stay awake to catch a glimpse of Santa. I would take multiple baths to remain alert, I would eat hidden candy with a higher than necessary caffeine content leftover from Halloween, Coffee-crisps stacked in a “Do not touch until Christmas Eve” pile.
Then when I started to crash, from the sugar, water logged and from utter exhaustion, I would try desperately to fall asleep so the morning would hurry up and arrive. Except, as hard as I tried, I could not fall asleep.
I would squeal and toss and turn under my covers. I would giggle but on high speed and then stop and listen just in case I missed the sound of sleigh bells while positively giddy with anticipation.
I guess I expected my children to have a similar Christmas Eve experience. The baby was asleep with a pile of books in her crib–normal. Ellie was asleep and soaked with sweat with just a sheet covering her–normal.
When I heard Hanna, I assumed she was delightedly laughing at the possibility of the morning haul. Never did I anticipate the following conversation.
Me: Hanna, why are you crying?
Hanna: I’m on the naughty list. I know it. I’m not getting any presents.
Gulp.
Hanna: I haven’t been nice to Ellie all year, sometimes I’m really mean to her. I wanted to change but I ran out of time.
It was tough consoling her but I finally decided to tell her the truth.
If her Uncle Ted received a present every year from Santa then there was no way she was on the naughty list.
She smiled and felt better about her situation.
As a parent, I felt proud of her for having some remorse and acknowledgement for hurting someone else, hoping of course this might be the impetus for change, knowing instead it was really just an allover terror she may not have any brown paper packages tied up with strings under the Christmas tree.
Ellie in her sleep: Hanna, I’ll give you my presents if you don’t get any. (I think she winked at the sky hoping Santa might have been listening)
Good-night bum-kisser.
