It didn't make sense to visit my mom for Christmas. We were broke; 4 tickets, 4 suitcases full of unopened presents, 4 tickets back with 4 suitcases full of opened presents. We couldn't do it.
We did it anyway, scraping flier miles and savings accounts. "No presents for grownups!" I warned. "It's the gift of family togetherness!" They cheered, and toasted to family togetherness. Somehow, everyone wanted presents anyway.
Merry Buffsmas
We flew in early on the day before Christmas Eve. We crammed into the VW and drove across the island to the Koa House, my favorite breakfast joint since the age of 14. I was sad to note that the restaurant seemed to have aged a bit in the past 17 years, and the potatoes appeared to have been fried up by a different cook. Traitorous progression of time.
I found myself at the mall with Leif, on a mission for last-minute gifts. Decided it would be a fantastic idea to buy a giant ice cream maker right away, and lug it around for miles with the plastic bag cutting into my arm and a toddler on my hip. Hours later, I collapsed in the overpriced toy shop, sitting in a mountain of bags while Leif drove trucks around on the floor display. When it was time to catch our ride, he gave a polite, "Aww," took my finger with a resigned glance back at the trucks, and led me staggering outside to a bench, where I handed him a cookie and waited for my mother. He swung his legs and ate the cookie, humming and bobbing his head. Smug toddlers, eating cookies and riding their mothers around. I eyed my mom as we got home, considering grappling up onto her back and riding her into the house. She probably could have taken it.
The $32 poo
The next day, I felt as if I had been beaten with a bag of rocks. The man and my mom hadn't seen Deathly Hallows, so I bought them two tickets and dropped them off at the theater, discovering myself standing by the coin-operated batmobile in the mall with both children and three hours to kill. I was determined not to exert myself, and sat around while the boys played in the fiberglass vehicles, watching a kiosk salesgirl shovel seasoned popcorn into bags while wearing thigh-high fuzzy pink boots with ruffly underpants peeking out above two inches of bare thigh. Wondered if she had come straight from her other job, then felt bad. After visiting toy stores, running under the fake-snow blower that showered bubbles every hour, and eating a few cups of frozen yogurt, we ended up in the children's section of the book store. The mall was overrun with military dads, chucked from the house with the kids while feast preparations were underway, and one sidled up to comment about how both our 2 year-olds had headfuls of curls. At this moment, Leif blew out his let's-be-on-the-safe-side diaper.
If you run out of diapers at the mall, you're fucked. You can buy anything in creation except diapers. I cleaned him up, tugged his pants on over his bare butt, and hauled the boys outside to make a run for the drug store across the street. It was raining. "What do you think, kid?" Gavin eyed the rain. "It's not too much." We ran for it, dashing through the whispy rain and splashing over puddles. "I'm dodging the drops! I'm not getting wet! AUGH!" a big droplet hit him in the eye. We burst into the drugstore, found some pull-ups, bought a few drinks, and sat outside to wait out the rain. Gavin stood as a human modesty curtain while I yanked a diaper onto Leif. The rain did not let up, and the swatch of blue sky we had been watching clouded over with thunderheads. "NOW NOW NOW!" I shrieked. We splashed out across the parking lot, infink laughing on my shoulder, and the storm broke in earnest halfway there. A few people waiting for the bus under the bench shelter stood up and cheered, waving us in out of the rain and offering their seats. An old woman scowled and tried to spread her bottom out, determined to be unmoved. When the lights were about the switch, we darted out into the torrential rain again, slapped the crossing button, and sprinted the last 200 yards to the mall, where we stood outside Macys and clutched out stomachs in hysterics, soaked to the skin and water dripping from our noses. I wiped Leif's face with a semi-dry spot under my arm. We squelched up the escalator, shivering in the cold store, and bought children's sweaters on holiday clearance, stripping off and pulling them on in the hallway outside. The boys did hugs and jumps of warmth-appreciation. Leif threw down a little breakdance. We met dad and grannie outside the theater, and Mike was so overcome by the movie and the sight of his drenched, freshly-spiffed offspring that he spun us around in a group hug and kissed us all.
And that is the heartwarming story of the $32 poo.
Christmas
I was quivering with mall-muscles by dinner on Christmas Eve, and considered it my duty to compensate by consuming my weight in chocolates and wine. We could tell it was time for Christmas when the presents started to take over the livingroom and lift the tree.
The elves (or a cat) clattered upstairs as we enjoyed our evening feast. They left jammies under our pillows, and we all went to bed in new flannel, groaning with roast beef and yorkshire pudding. Whether it was the footie pajamas or our being too engorged to roll over and disturb him, the infink slept the entire night without so much as twitching. I became alert to rustlings and the reflected light of the tree at about 5am, and crept downstairs to find the boy rolling in his stocking loot while my mom observed with a bleary smile from the couch. "2am," she said. "Twoo aaaye emmm." Keeping him in bed until 5 had been a herculean feat. I got her a huge cup of coffee and we waited for the remaining boys while Gavin shook with excitement over Santa's loot and cookie crumbs. Leif woke with an indignant scream, discovering me out of bed. I ran up and grabbed him, ran downstairs, and squealed exuberantly about his stocking while shaking him around - which everyone loves at 5am. He howled, tucked his head to hide from the light, pointed up at the ceiling, and screamed, "BED!!" So we went back up, laid in bed for a moment, and then came down again. He clapped and sat down to his presents. Sheesh.
Presents! Eggs and bacon! Mimosas! Brandy chocolates! Meat pie! The boy terrorized us for the next two days with his new spy watch, recording hours of conversation, shrieks over the flaming figgy pudding, and dinnertime reminiscing about Boozes I Have Known and Loved. I spent a lot of time petting my Anthropologie lamp and wearing earrings that look like cicada shells (the most wonderfully horrifying things EVER).
We left the boy to enjoy the rest of his vacation with his grandmother, and we flew back home. My mother's home is small and close, comfortably cluttered: book cases full of worn and loved cookbooks; small wooden and china boxes hiding tiny treasures; bronze sculptures and oil paintings. Our house looked naked and sparse when we stepped in. The cats had expressed their love by hosing the bathroom with pee, so I put the infink to bed and scrubbed the floor for a bit, muttering about calico sporrans and black fur hats.
Another Christmas, another year, another airport plague to knock me down for a few days at home to feel guilty about appearing to be one of those fakers who just want more vacation time. Tradition is key during the holidays.
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