In
the which our Heroine Backtracks to Prior Events.
Santa came a few hours early this Christmas. He did not use a chimney. The doorbell rang. I opened the door, and then closed it
again. Like on TV when the character can’t
believe what they’re seeing so they shut and open again just to make sure it
wasn’t a figment of their imagination. Well,
there was no such confusion or romance in my reaction (but isn’t the parallel
funny!). It was cold, and I had a bag of
bread in my hands (PBJ’s commin’ right up!) and I had to put it down because
there was no way I could hold it and
all the gifts at the same time.
Yes, I said gifts in the plural. You know, in general, giving has some sort of
limit, but this easily crossed the line.
The persons/Santas in question remain anonymous despite my many cognitive
efforts.
Take it from someone who has time and time again proven that
she is terrible at gift giving, these presents were good. And they, combined with those of extended family
and friends, were ALOT. Christmas
morning came and there were still more for my girl to unwrap. Eva was rolling in the splendor of so much
wrapping paper. She was clearly
experiencing new horizons in toy-play.
It is clear that she is still experiencing this as she has neglected all
other and older toys in favor of the new.
I don’t think she’ll ever go back.
I was not soliciting for charity in my last post, but it
came anyway—and in such incredible generosity. We felt this charitable love from other
unexpected and fantastic presents on our doorstep that evening—again, really
good—from good friends who spilled the beans the next day (surprise! Thank you
Hendersons and Rappleyes), to a delicious pumpkin pie. Of course, the expected gifts received in
trade far exceeded my own miserable presents.
I feel the largesse, but cannot seem to produce it. Except for mine to Eva, which of course lay
at the heart of my sarcastic “anger” toward St. Nick. Due to the benevolence of others, I was able
to take credit for the other big favorite of the day: A box of Disney
Princesses with multiple changes of clip-on dresses. How could a three-year-old girl not love
these?
And so, to the Santa’s in my life, I raise my glass (of left-over
eggnog) in salute.
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