Spoiler Alert: the following post contains sensitive material about Santa. Sarah, don't let Hailey read it.
Tradition in my family calls for opening presents on Christmas Eve, a convenience that I have a greater appreciation for now that we spend Christmas Day with Nate's family. In order to get through the whole Christmas bash before 9 o'clock, and because no one wants to dress up in a red suit, we have a somewhat unorthodox visitation from Santa. Nate thinks it is a little bit weird, and describes it as a terrifying mix of stranger home invasion, gender segregation, and frantic, bad singing. First, we put on nice clothes and eat lasagna. Then, about ten minutes after dinner, a male member of the family goes outside with a long string of antiquey--looking rattley shells that can approximate the sound of jingle bells, stomps around the porch shaking them, and shouts "HO HO HO" while trying to disguise his voice. At the first sound of the stomping, shouting, or rattling, the female family members and children all flee to an upstairs or downstairs room and sing Christmas carols at top volume. Yes, we hide.
Because Santa cannot be seen.
This aspect of the whole process is instilled very strongly in the children of my family. For example, this year my niece Julia asked if her dinner could be saved until after the Santa ordeal, because she was "just too nervous" to eat. Dinner is usually filled with questions like "What happens if we see Santa?" "Will he hurt us?" "Why does he have to break into the house?" While the Christmas carols and scared crying are taking place in a back room, fathers and grandfathers must find the stash of Santa's presents and display them under the tree in an enticing fashion. This means that presents must be assembled properly in record time, because we really only know three Christmas carols. This year, Nate was tasked with assembling Henry's small cloth farm and arranging the cute little farm animals before "Santa" left. He failed. The farm, from Ikea, had only two assembly steps, including 1) unfolding the instructions and 2) putting a plastic rod through some fabric. Faced with such simplicity, he panicked, and when I emerged from downstairs with the kids and glared at him, he said he saw the next ten Christmases flash before his eyes: lots of cursing, and my burning disappointment at his inability to properly assemble children's toys. In spite of the assembly glitch, Santa's first visit of the night was successful. The girls both got ipod shuffles and quickly forgot all about the inherent contradictions in stranger danger warnings and the Christmas spirit. Jack was thrilled with his oversized pillow and a luggage set--he had been making do with a hand-me-down pink Barbie roller bag. His blue spaceship backpack and roller bag appeared slightly more manly than the Barbie bag until he discovered, and delightedly strapped on, the matching fanny pack. Henry loved the half-assembled farm, of course, and showed it by drooling all over his plush cow and gurgling.
First visit, you say? Santa visits twice, you ask? Yes. Santa comes back after everyone goes to bed, because on Christmas morning we open our stockings, which are stuffed with candy, socks, underwear, trashy magazines, and little gag gifts like fake teeth. Yes, it would seem like Santa might dislike returning to the same house twice in order to deliver whoopee cushions in secrecy, and yes, it does seem bad for his carbon footprint. But that is the way it works around here. Family tradition is strong, and often illogical. But there is so much comfort in silly routines, and I felt very grateful that we made it home with Henry so that he could see his parents wearing fake vampire fangs and eating marshmallow santas at 8 o'clock in the morning (he cried) and get whoopee cushioned by his cousin Julia (he laughed).
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