The Many Ghosts of Christmas Past

As a child, when it came to exciting times, Christmas was unrivaled.  Sure, a birthday was good for a few presents, maybe even a party and, yeah, gettin' the fairy godmother to part with a little chump change for that lost tooth was a kick.  And, of course, the abundant candy haul on Halloween and to some degree, Easter--which also included Easter egg hunts--was nothing to sneeze at.  But, Christmas?...  fuhgeddaboudit!  It came armed with its own music, decorations and actual visits to the store to see Santa in person, the same guy that's hookin' up reindeer to his sleigh and flyin' over to your place with presents later that month.  The same guy who eats the snacks you put out after somehow successfully sliding that rather obese frame down your skinny little fireplace.  The same guy being tracked by NORAD on Christmas Eve as he travels at the speed of light to all the children across the entire world.  So, shove it, goblins; fat chance, Easter Bunny; take that, Fairy Godmother, Christmas won in a landslide, hands down, every time!

For sure, Christmas Eve was the one night our parents had no trouble convincing all of us kids to hit the hay early.  The rationale: the quicker the Sandman arrived, the sooner came morn and the magic of opening our presents.  Within reason.  The deal was that none of us were to leave our beds until the sun came up.  We'd politely agree to the terms and then bolt for the kitchen faucet to down as much water as possible, guaranteeing a middle-of-the-night wake-up bathroom call, the first one rousing the rest out of their slumber. A foolproof scheme to be sure.  From there, a couple of us would go on a reconnaissance mission, tiptoeing down the stairs to the living room to scope out the scene and report back.  Amazingly, we never got caught performing this ritual, attributable to either our cagey clandestine skills or our parents' heavy sleeping (yeah, I'm thinkin' the latter).  Either way, this went on for a lot of years.  Ya know, until skepticism reared its ugly head.

Funny thing, getting older, how our naivete wanes. How we end up becoming a little too smart for our own good. So yeah, somewhere around the age of ten (a bit late, maybe, but I didn't have an elder sibling to tip me off), things changed.  Doubt about the big guy crept in.  My little logical mind started to consider just how crazy the concept of delivering all this loot to every kid worldwide in just one night could work.  How he got the reindeers to actually fly or how an old and seemingly out-of-shape dude made his way down chimneys.  Or, especially, how he could scarf down all that food left by well-intentioned kids, looking to improve their gift intake with out-and-out bribes.  So eventually I worked up the courage to confront the parents, only to learn that, yes, Santa was the beard and they were the real gift givers... Bit of a drag, I must say.  My first true lesson that growin' up had a downside.

So, onward to that next phase of reassuring the younger kids that Santa was, indeed, real, all the while exchanging knowing looks with Mom and Dad over our shared secret.  It was official, I'd graduated from believer to emissary, a spy whose mission was to assist in keeping my brothers and sisters in the dark and, gotta say, I took the position seriously. And then, just a handful of years later, into my teens, another shift took place as I found a part-time job and, for the first time ever, was in a position to buy my parents a decent present.  So, yeah, Mom got the expensive sweater, but not before a bit of chicanery as my brother, Rick, and I chipped in on a gift of pink coat hangers and moth balls, somehow managing to keep straight faces as she unwrapped this "so not cool" present, only to witness her beaming smile and exclamation that this was something she really, really needed... So, yeah, the joke was on us.

And later on, amazingly, I found myself in a position where the roles were reversed, and I had kids of my own who were excited beyond belief as I ushered them into bed early on Christmas Eve (ever careful to monitor their water intake).  And, of course, much later on that night I'm pulling my hair out attempting to put together a dollhouse with seemingly as much square footage as my own place, followed by the complete assembling of a boy's bicycle, the whole while thinking that things would be going a hell of a lot smoother if I hadn't imbibed in those last couple of adult beverages. And also, if I could just find that missing bike sprocket. 

And finally?... Yeah, the kids are out of the house, creating their own yuletide memories with their children en route to someday being where I am right now, reflecting on all of those ghosts of Christmas past. And, no doubt, the realization will hit them that change is the one constant in life.  But also, that history does repeat itself and that at your more advanced age, just like your Christmas Eve as a youngster, regardless of your liquid intake, you'll be getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.