At this time every year, I’m reminded of a Christmas story that makes me smile.
It was a magical Christmas morning in 1992. I had decorated the house immaculately, and everything necessary for the season was prepared. I was looking forward to a festive day spent with family. I was young, in love and had a toddler. Life was good.
At the time, we lived in an old Victorian home across the street from a park. Because of the vintage of the house, nearly every room had a fireplace, including our bedroom. Though few worked, all had sizeable mantels that I diligently decorated festively, in particular, the one in our bedroom. There I would hang three Christmas stockings. One for my husband, myself and our son. They would be filled the evening before with clementines, chocolates and treats. Our son’s stocking was stuffed with chocolate Christmas coins, hot wheels and an array of Christmas trinkets.
On this particular Christmas morning, as I went to draw the curtains what was revealed to my husband and I was enormous fluffy snowflakes calmly sashaying through the air to a pillowy descent. It was a scene straight out of a film. The street was still covered in a crisp white blanket. The majestic old oaks chestnut and maple trees were enveloped in a thick coating of freshly fallen snow. What was equally magical was we were both feeling amorous. We decided we had enough time before our little one woke up and gifted ourselves our own Christmas present indulging in some early morning lovemaking.
As we were peaking, both our radars heard the tapping of little stocking feet scampering down the hall on the hardwood floor. There was our little guy who slid into our bedroom wall like he was sliding into third base. He picked himself up, then scurried to the side of our bed, hardly able to contain his excitement, as we were at the height of our lovemaking. When suddenly, he stopped, and we froze under our feathery duvet as he stared directly at us.
“Mommy daddy, mommy daddy,” he screamed with the delirium that only a toddler can possess, entirely blinded by the fact that we were buried under our duvet, only our heads peeking out. His focus laser. “Did Santa come, did Santa come?” Without missing a beat, my husband replied: “Almost son, almost.”
I adjusted myself under the generous duvet, giggling and said: “Why don’t you check your Christmas stocking and see.”
He ran to the fireplace mantel, his back to us as he stretched high on his tiptoes, clutching his stocking, then feverishly emptying the contents on the floor, jumping for joy while screaming, “Santa, came, Santa came!” To which my husband smiled and calmly replied, “He sure did, son, he sure did.”
I wish to send you intentions for a holiday season filled with love and laughter and a New Year rich in blessings and abundance.