Christmas Through a Child's Eyes (9 page)

BY SHAUNA SMITH DUTY

A
fter circling the parking lot like a hungry buzzard, I finally spotted an empty space. I eased my car into a parking spot across from the toy store and looked at my daughter, Alysen, who sat bright eyed and anxious in the passenger seat.

“Well, let's do this thing,” I said begrudgingly.

I didn't want to be out and about the day after Christmas looking for a rain check, even it was for a doll Alysen had waited for all year. This was my mother's doing. She had bestowed the honor of owning a coveted Doll of All Dolls onto her only granddaughter, and at the same time subjected me to one of the pitfalls of motherhood: guilt. When I suggested she order the doll online, I received a lecture about spending quality time with my daughter, which included a few potent words regarding the evils of Internet shopping as well. Rather than listen to me, she had accepted a rain check redeemable on the worst shopping day of the year — the day after Christmas — and from the busiest toy store in town!

How would my weathering the December 26 shopping madness at the crack of dawn make me a good mother? Did Alysen's dreams really consist of an eighteen-inch plastic doll with unblinking eyes and outfits that cost $40 a pop? I hoped not.

I locked the car and grabbed my daughter's mitten-covered hand. It wasn't as small as it used to be. Her fingers wrapped around my hand instead of nestling in my palm. Looking down at her, I realized she had grown. The top of her head now reached my shoulder. Soon, shopping for dolls would end and we'd be shopping for training bras and miniskirts. Maybe Mother was right about the quality-time thing.

I pushed open the front door and stared at the throngs of people swarming the aisles like ants on spilled Kool-Aid. My head began to ache.

“There's Customer Service, Mom,” Alysen said, pointing toward a line of shoppers. I groaned aloud and caught the timid smile that crossed her lips. “Thanks for bringing me?”

Reminding myself Alysen was only ten, I nodded and suppressed another groan. “You're welcome, Baby. Let's get in line.”

After a few moments, Alysen pointed to a huge box. “What's that?” she asked.

“Looks like the toy drive.” I glanced at my watch again.

“For the kids without families?”I nodded impatiently. “It's a donation box to collect toys for orphans.”

“You think Santa visited everybody? Even the orphans?”She pulled both of her lips between her teeth to conceal her smile.

“I'm pretty sure he did,” I replied, trying to ignore the smirk on her face. I knew she wanted me to think she still believed in Santa — I actually liked the farce. As far as I was concerned, the longer she wanted me to view her as a baby, the better.

“Can I go read the sign on the box?”

We were both getting bored, and the line was stagnant. “Sure,” I replied.

Suddenly, another cash register opened and, by some miracle, I was summoned to the front of the line. “Come on, Honey,” I called to my daughter as I handed our rain check to the cashier. Within seconds, the cashier was shouting an item number over the crackling intercom. A few minutes later, a man showed up and handed the clerk a box. The cashier bagged it and lifted it over the counter.

I presented the bag to my daughter, who looked like I was offering her the Hope Diamond. All of her dreams in a cardboard box. How simple. After scribbling my signature on the receipt, I reached to grab my daughter's hand, but she was already at the doors. I smiled. A crowd hater just like her ma.

At the door, she slipped her hand in mine. “Mom, you deserve Starbucks.”

I grinned. All of my dreams in a paper cup? How simple. “So do you, Sweetheart.”

We ordered our favorite overpriced holiday beverages at the drive-through. Christmas was over. Life was grand. The lingering scent of coffee and peppermint filled the car as we headed for home. Pulling into the driveway, I parked the car and jumped out, slamming the door behind me. Like all experienced moms, my subconscious took inventory of my daughter's belongings as I stuck the key in the front door lock. She'd finished her cocoa in the car and had her coat, mittens, scarf, and …

“Where's your bag?”

“Uh …” She shuffled her feet.

With a look of pure shock, I practically shouted, “No! Please tell me you didn't leave it at the store.” Alysen's eyes welled with tears.

Pulling the key from the door handle, I took a deep breath and tried not to get angry. “It's okay, we'll go back. Just get in the car,” I said. Alysen didn't move. “Come on, it's okay. Accidents happen.”

“Oh, Mommy!” she wailed. In the next instant, she had buried her head in the front of my coat and wrapped her arms around my waist, nearly spilling my coffee.

I set my cup on the car and returned her hug, then pulled her from me and looked at her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“What is it, Baby?”

She shook her head and sniffed a few times. “Don't be mad. Please don't be mad.”

“I'm not mad.” I wiped her tears with my thumbs.

She cocked her head and bit her lip. It took her a moment to speak. “I put it in the box.”

“What?”

“The Toys for Orphans box. The sign said they would make their last pick up on December 26 at 9:00 A.M. Don't be mad.” She gulped in a deep breath and started talking quickly, “But if Santa forgot anybody, and they don't have grandmas and moms and dads to give them stuff … then some kids may have gotten nothing.” A new flood of tears splashed down her cheeks and she wailed, “And I already have so much.”

I was speechless. She had given away her box of Christmas dreams come true — the Doll of All Dolls that she waited all year for — to the orphans? My heart was filled with admiration. My ten-year-old daughter had chosen self-sacrifice over her own desire.

“I'm not mad,” I whispered, tears beginning to trickle down my face. “I'm so proud of you. You know what the Spirit of Christmas is.”

Alysen wiped my tears with the back of one mitten and then sniffed, wiping at her own face. “I love Christmas,” she said with a little shrug.

I smiled and pulled her into my arms, “I do, too, Baby.

I do, too.”

BY DELBERT L. BIEBER

I
n the predawn hours of Christmas Eve, we loaded the old Dodge panel truck with eggs, fresh chicken, winter turnips, potatoes, and an assortment of homemade baked goods and pies. By first light, we were on our way to the city.

It was exciting for a six-year-old boy to accompany his dad making door-to-door deliveries of the farm's produce. And to make it even more dreamlike, somewhere about mid-morning, snowflakes began to descend like little angels. Standing on the city sidewalk, I looked up at the dark gray sky to watch the snow falling softly, playfully.

“We must hurry now,” Dad said with urgency in his voice and concern etched in his face.

Dad sent me on ahead to get the order from the next house, always keeping me one house ahead of him as we worked our way up one street and down the next. It was a great big step in parental trust and childhood responsibility, and I was feeling quite privileged. And of course, the fuss the housewives made of this “grown-up” little boy caused me to try even harder to do everything “just like Dad.”

We were moving so fast and concentrating so hard, I barely noticed that the snow was continuing to mount, not only on the lawns and trees, but also on the sidewalks and streets. And by mid-afternoon, those soft, fluffy, drifting, angelic flakes had turned into biting, swirling, driven, demonic crystals. This was not just a friendly winter snow shower; it was a blizzard! By the time we finished the route in early evening, there was over twelve inches of snow on the ground, and more coming down. It was going to be a white Christmas indeed!

Between the city of Allentown and the tiny village of Old Zionsville, there are several treacherous mountains. That night, they were worse than treacherous; they were nearly impossible to negotiate. There were no tracks to follow in the freshly fallen snow. No snowplow had been over these mountains since the storm began; no one had, except my Dad and me.

The chains Dad had put on the truck tires before we left the city helped, but barely, and one of them had broken a link. With every revolution of the rear wheel, there was a clank against the fender. Several times, we stopped and Dad lifted me onto the hood to clear the snow from the windshield so he could see. But mostly, he just stuck his head out the side of the open door on the driver's side.

Finally, we arrived at the entrance to the lane that led to our farm house. Unfortunately, it was completely blocked with over three feet of snow. Consequently, Dad decided to attempt to drive across the windswept fields. For the next several hours, he drove about ten feet, got out of the truck, shoveled a bit, repaired the chains, got back into the truck, and drove about ten feet … and so it went. Though I was frightened, it didn't dampen my enthusiasm. I was glad I was there with Dad and he wasn't forced to deal with this storm on his own.

Somewhere near midnight, Dad realized driving was a hopeless cause. We loaded our arms with the most expensive perishable items and began to wade through the snow, toward what I hoped was home. The storm was furious. Ice crystals burned our faces and the ferocity of the wind took our breath away.

Less than five yards from the truck, Dad's flashlight died. The night was darker than black, and I hoped Dad knew where he was going. It was impossible to see anything in any direction. I stepped into his footsteps as he dragged his feet to make the path as easy as possible for me. Occasionally, he stopped to make sure I was all right. Several times I fell, and no sooner had I landed face first in the snow, than Dad's hands were there to pick me up again.

Then, just when I felt I couldn't take another step, Dad laid down his armful of produce to pick up a more valuable bundle: his shivering, fatigued little boy. For the remainder of the journey I rode home in the arms of my father. And when I saw the lights on the Christmas tree in the front window of our house, a wonderful sensation rejuvenated my entire being and I laughed as I hugged my dad. He had brought us safely home!

For Dad it was probably one of the worst days and nights of his life, but in my young mind, it had been a wonderful Christmas — I had been there to help Dad through a situation that could have been very frightening if he had to deal with it on his own.

BY MARIE (NIKKI) ESSEL STEIN

I
t was Christmas Eve at the local department store. I stood in line and watched as the screaming boy in front of me was placed on Santa's lap. I clutched my mother's hand a little tighter, and trembled in my winter boots as I watched.

Santa was downright scary.

The little boy wriggled and fought to get away, but Santa had an iron grip. Just let him go, I begged silently. Instead, Santa held on until the boy calmed down.

“One, two, three,” the too-tall elf said, and a flashbulb lit up the room.

Before Santa could ask the child what he wanted for Christmas, the little boy had slid down his leg and raced to the safety of his mother's arms. The boy clung to her, tears rolling down his face.

“Mommy,” I whispered in abject horror, “he didn't tell Santa what he wanted!”

My mother smiled and patted me on the head. “That's alright, Sweetie. Santa has magic. He knows what every little girl and boy wants for Christmas.”

I glanced up at her confident smile, then back at the little boy.
If Santa had magic, why hadn't he known the boy didn't want his picture taken?
I frowned, scrutinizing Santa one last time before I took a deep breath and moved toward him.

With each step, I visualized what I wanted for Christmas. Repeating to myself, paint set, paint set, paint set, I walked slowly, not stopping until I was directly in front of him. Santa looked down at me for a second, then put his big hands under my arms and lifted me to his lap. I barely breathed.

“Look here,” the too-tall elf called. Santa and I turned toward the elf. “One, two, three!” Flash! The Polaroid spit out our image.

“So, what's your name?” Santa asked.

“Nikki,” I answered, my brows puckering. An icicle of fear started at the base of my neck. Didn't Santa recognize me?

“And have you been good?”

I swallowed anxiously, the fear beginning to spread. Wasn't Santa supposed to know if I'd been good or not? Unable to speak, I nodded, fighting the urge to pull on his beard.

“So,” he said, in a voice that had unexpectedly grown serious, “what do you want for Christmas?”

My eyes locked on his and I froze. What was it I had wanted? I couldn't remember. All I knew was that I wanted out of there and quick. Santa waited patiently. He looked over his half-moon glasses, blue eyes twinkling. I sat, completely numb, waiting for him to put me down so I could run to my mother, too.

Finally, he smiled. “How about a doll? Would you like a doll?”

I nodded feebly.

“I bet you'd like a Sleepy Sally doll,” he suggested. “She closes her eyes when you lay her down and wets when you feed her. Would you like that?”

I nodded again, my eyes darting around the room in search of my mother. When I found her, she was smiling.

“Well, that sounds good to me!” Santa replied with a jolly laugh. Then he gave me a squeeze and set my feet back on the floor. I walked to my mother on wobbly legs and watched, impressed, as the next child — a boy who was at least seven, and therefore much braver than me — practically jumped into Santa's lap.

We walked out of the fake snow-covered kingdom and right into the toy department. Near the exit was a huge well-stocked pile of Sleepy Sally dolls in their signature pink boxes. I took one look at the dolls and realized what I had done.

I had ruined my only chance of ever getting the one thing I so desperately wanted. Overwhelmed, I began to cry. All I wanted for Christmas was a paint set from the hobby store where Daddy got the toy train parts for my brother. The paint set with the four big jars of beautiful blue, green, yellow, and red. The paint set that came with eight wonderful brushes. The paint set with the mixing tray and the water bowl included.

But it was too late. I looked across the room at the line of children still waiting to see Santa. I knew my mother would never let me wait in that line a second time. I looked at the pile of Sleepy Sallies and wiped my face on my sleeve, resigned to my sad fate.

It took forever to get to sleep on Christmas Eve. When I finally did sleep, my dreams were filled with visions of paint sets and dolls. My brother woke me twice during the night — both times, he was sure he'd heard reindeer hooves on the roof.

I was the last to wake the next morning. Reluctantly, I made my way into the living room. My brother had gotten tons of new Hot Wheels, just what he had asked for. I didn't want to look under the tree — I knew what waited there. But as I walked into the living room, I glanced toward the tree anyway. I didn't see anything pink. Instead, I saw an easel with a big pad of paper on it, and right in front of it was a paint set! The perfect paint set!

I sprinted into the room and grabbed the paint set. I could hardly believe my eyes!

“Mommy! Daddy!” I shouted, racing into the kitchen where they were talking. “I thought he was going to bring me that Sleepy Sally doll but he brought me the paint set!”

I looked from Dad's wide smile to Mom's confident, perfect smile, and that's when it all clicked. Mom wore the same smile she had shot across the room to me that day in Santa-land. The same smile that had been on her face when she told me Santa was magical and that he knew everything.

Standing there in the kitchen — in my pajamas and bare feet, staring at my mother's confident smile — was a defining moment for me that I will never forget. That's when it all clicked for me, and I knew.

Santa really did have magic and really did know everything. Why did I suddenly believe it was true? Not because Santa had brought me the paint set, but because Mom had said he would. When Mom told me Santa had magic and that he knew everything, I should have believed her. For that one brief moment, I had forgotten that Mom, of all people, would know! She had proven to me time and time again that she had more magic than anyone.