Each year I usually settle in closer to “Santa Claus” than “The Grinch” on the Scale of Christmas Icons. In fact, one Christmas I actually BECAME Santa Claus…but that’s another story for another day. This Christmas I would have been better off attempting a break-in at Nakatomi Plaza or maybe even replacing Christmas altogether with Festivus (there were, actually, some “airing of the grievances” in this Christmas story). The Christmas I want to share with you now may lead you to believe that my heart had even shrunk two sizes too small.
It all started back in 1998. My son, The Tall One (although both sons are quite tall now, so let’s call him “The Taller One”).
Take two: It all started back in 1998. My son, The Taller One, was four years old and a big fan of hockey’s newest team, the Nashville Predators. The number one thing on his Christmas list that year was a Predators’ sweater (or as he called it “a Predators’ shirt”). The second thing on his list was a pair of roller blades. For a young, southern boy who had only been to (or even seen) one hockey game (the Predators franchise opener) it was a pretty big deal that hockey had vaulted to the top of his Christmas list.
For months, when asked what he wanted for Christmas, The Taller One’s answer was consistent: “A Predators shirt and roller blades”. I, ever the clever one, would tell him that “I’d just got off the phone with Santa. He’s got your Predators SKIRT and RAZOR blades in his sack and ready to bring to you this Christmas”. The four year old failed to find the humor in this and would quickly correct me: “Dad! It’s a Predators SHIRT and ROLLER blades!”, and demand I get back in touch with Santa and make sure he got it right.
We were at The In-Laws for Christmas and when the morning of the 25th finally arrived I had some gift-giving comedy in store for all of us. Imagine a bright-eyed, hockey-loving, four-year-old boy hurrying down the stairs to the Christmas tree. He’s greeted by his father who hands him a small, brightly-wrapped package. When you’re four and you’re handed a gift to unwrap, you don’t ask questions. You start ripping paper. What The Taller One finds is, you guessed it, a box of razor blades. He says: “Dad, you’re so funny” and gives me a big hug. The rest of the family has a grand laugh to start Christmas day and Frosty the Snowman peers in through the living room window and gives us all a tip of his hat and a wink. Dad of the Year! The End.
Unfortunately, there was a fly in the ointment…a monkey in the wrench…to my happy Christmas ending. When The Taller One opens the package and sees the razor blades he does not laugh, smile or giggle. Not even close. First, his chin sinks to his chest. Then, as it occurs to him that “if these are razor blades then somewhere under that tree there is also a skirt for me”, he crumbles to the floor in disappointment. Tears begin to flow. I’m a dead man.
The Wife and The Mother-in-Law are ready to demonstrate “Feats of Strength” by bashing my skull with the first heavy object they can find. I gather the boy up in my arms and help him find the Predators shirt and roller blades under the tree. For the boy, the crushing sadness gives way to joy. For me, my day didn’t turn around that quickly. The Wife and The Mother-in-Law are plotting my destruction throughout the day. When I see them smile, I worry because that means they have not only thought up a maniacal way to end my existence, but they’ve concocted an air-tight alibi, too.
Through constant apologies and taking great care before I ate or drank anything, I managed to survive the day. However, every year I am reminded by The Wife or the Mother-in-Law or even The Taller One of the year I very nearly ruined Christmas. You know, every time a Bruce Willis movie comes out, nobody reminds him about being in “Look Who’s Talking Too”.
Here’s wishing you and yours a Yippee-ki-yay, Merry Christmas.
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