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Full-Time Dads;

The Magazine for Caregiver Fathers

Issue 18, originally appeared in print - November 1995

The Lighter Side - A Traditional Christmas

By John C. O'Brien

When my family is compared to the average North American household, we can hardly be considered traditional. We are comprised of a stay-at-home father, a working mother, a teenage daughter dancing and harmonizing her way to a future in the performing arts and a 10-year-old son who wants to be either an engineer or a stand-up comedian ("Take my cross-section drawings...please!"). No were not an ordinary family at all. But, when December rolls around, a mysterious change comes over us and we suddenly feel compelled to honor such a massive flood of traditions that we make the Osmonds look like a gang of Godless Bolsheviks.

For example:
Opening Day Ceremonies: On the first day of the month, with exaggerated fanfare, I hoist the Christmas flag and hang our customary red-bowed wreath by the front door. When the work is done, my daughter, my wife and I stand together and relish the thoughts of peace, joy and love that this period of the year represents.

My son, on the other hand, finds it difficult to focus on the tranquil charm of the season. Instead, from the very second that the flag catches its initial ripple of winter wind, he is transformed into The Beast Who Would Devour Toys-R-Us and overwhelming visions of Gameboy cartridges and remote-control Lamborghinis start slam-dancing in his head.

For the next 24 days and nights, he shadows me relentlessly, thumping toy store advertisements like the Energizer Bunny thumping his bass drum and pointing out to me the multitude of presents he feels he deserves. There are Super-Soakers and mountain bikes, archery sets and roller blades, entertainment centers and the scuba getaways in the Caribbean. I have no idea how he does it but, every December, even without the benefit of adequate food and rest, he is somehow able to just keep going and going and going...

A Two-for-One-Special: Because of our backgrounds, we celebrate Chanukah as well as Christmas. Our 8-night commemoration of the Festival of Lights always follows the same pattern.

At mealtimes, we eat potato pancakes dipped in sour cream and a pungent cabbage soup whose recipe has been passed down through my wife's family for hundreds of years.

Afterwards, our children give themselves over to the personal rituals they have developed to mark this cheerful celebration. First, they argue over who will light the Menorah. Next, they argue over who will begin the game of Dreidel. Then, they argue over who started all the arguements.

Our outgoing son, who would usually be willing to start a conversation with any being who inhabits this galaxy, suddenly becomes too shy to perform his brief recitation on the history of Chanukah. Our daughter, who hums and pirouettes through every day of her life, cannot bring herself to sing the short simple tunes that are a part of the ceremony.

And all the while, both kids, sizzling from eight days of receiving presents, wear the ravenous, wild-eyed look of youngsters who have vacationed too long in Disneyworld. Believe me, they are not a pretty picture.

It is no mean task for my wife and me to maintain order throughout this holiday. In fact, for most people, it would probably prove to be a virtual impossibility. But we have a margin of comfort that others cannot enjoy because we possess the ultimate weapon. You see, when things start to get out of hand and our children look as if they will refuse to improve their behaivior, we can quiet them with the threat that they'll have to consume a second helping of soup.

A Brush With Death: The day on which we troop out to buy our Christmas tree is always so cold that it makes the tundra scenes on "Doctor Zhivago" seem as if they had been filmed in the Bahamas. It's strange but the moment we determine our schedule for this supposedly happy activity, the newspapers and airwaves fill up with reports of plummeting temperatures and unprecedented wind-chill factors which will arrive in the area exactly 10 minutes before our planned depature.

Bent against the gusts, we search through a disorderly array of Scottish pines which has been dumped on the local baseball field for specimens that show promise. I rip tree after tree from where it has frozen to the ground and hold it up for inspection.

"Too thin," my wife says. "And too tall."

Our daughter, ever the teenager, volunteers, "Too full, and too short."

"Safe!" shouts our son as he slides headfirst into home plate.

We wander about the field, shivering and blowing into our hands, bickering and debating until that miraculous instant when we come upon what everyone agrees is the "perfect" tree. Granted, it looks too tall for my wife's taste and too stout for our daughter's, but its purchase provides an advantage that cannot be ignored in the midst of such weather conditions. It is the tree that stands before us just as the first symptoms of frostbite begin to appear.

Bonnie Barrow and Her Protege: Immediately after Chanukah, our children develop the astounding ability to get along remarkably well. This has always puzzled my wife and me until we discovered the reason: each year, our daughter takes our son under her wing and teaches him everything he needs to know about properly preparing for a holiday.

Now, after careful study, he is capable of sneaking into any closet where gifts are packed away and of determining, with a quick shake, what is contained inside the brightly-wrapped boxes; of rummaging through drawers and pocketbooks and glove compartments until he ferrets out secret lists of presents he will receive on Christmas day; of purloining huge amounts of egg nog and sugar cookies without leaving the slightest trace of evidence behind.

As you might understand, my wife and I were upset when we first discovered the source of our children's compatibility but then we realized that there was a positive side to these developments. We figured that, if our son's ambitions to build bridges or headline at the Comedy Club ever fell through, at least he would have some useful skills to fall back on.

The Night of the Overweight Prowler: Very late on Christmas Eve, when our kids, I hope, are deeply asleep, I heave myself into the attic where Santa's special presents have been hidden and cart them down to the tree. History's most high-strung burglar has never experienced a fraction of the anxiety I feel during this chore each year.

In the early morning silence, the gifts wrapping paper crackles loudly enough to wake up the whole neighborhood and a layer of nervous perspiration breaks out on my forehead. When I thunk a package against the wall or cause an overfilled stocking to thud to the hearth, my heart stops from fear of being discovered. The stale, tasteless cookies that have been left for Santa make altogether too much noise when I bite into them, and the carrots, which are treats for the reindeer, crunch so noisily that I expect the room's window panes to shatter.

It's agonizing work, skulking around my own home like the world's most incompetent thief and I'm always relieved when, with the food sitting in my stomach like a shovelful of Drano, I can creep up to bed for a few hours of sleep. My dreams, though, are invariably disturbed because I've been operating under the fear that my children would find out what a bumbling master of deceit their father is. The only times of my life when I experience more stress are those mights when I'm called upon to be the Tooth Fairy.

The Day We've All Been Waiting For: I am awakened, each year, by our children's excited whispers just as the Christmas morning sun peeks over the horizon. Their eyes are wide and their faces glow as they enter the bedroom to inform my wife and me that Santa has come and gone under the cover of darkness.

Winter sunlight streams into our cozy home while the kids reverently unwrap what has been delivered to them on the previous, magical night. It is a pleasure for me to hear their expressions of delight and appreciation because I know that they are pure and heartfelt. The unalloyed joy and affection they feel during those moments are obvious in every facet of their behavior. The warmth and thankfulness which they radiate is unquestionably sincere.

It is a pristine moment, this annual early-morning tradition, and jam-packed with undiluted love and goodwill. It almost makes me feel that, this year, the holiday season has once again transpired without the slightest hitch.

Copyright 1994 John C. O'Brien