Decorating the tree required the same amount of painful meticulousness. Every branch was to have an ornament, and every ornament a branch, and under no circumstances could the final outcome give any appearance of lopsidedness. If the front had six red glass balls, the unwritten decree was that the back should have six red glass balls too. As for stockings, one wouldn’t have even dreamed of hanging them before Christmas Eve! All these “rules” were laid out not by our parents, but by us, their children. We found some unsounded delight in scientifically laying out our holiday; planning, carrying out, and rejoicing at the successes. Either way, I doubt our parents would have been much concerned whether or not we continued on in our assiduous preparations.
Besides our mania with these fixed and unspoken statutes, our holidays brought many other diversions: baking for random (occasionally unknown) neighbors to whom we sang carols with indiscriminate enthusiasm, sometimes bringing forth the most unexpected bursts of friendliness and heartwarming cheer. These gusts, however, were short-lived affairs that usually subsided by the time we were out selling wrapping paper for our baseball teams. But in those festive moments accompanied by hot chocolate and a sampling of our offerings no one seemed to remember the refutations of the previous spring. However, as delightful as these memories are to linger over, I find little distinction from year to year. There is one Christmas, however, that stands out in my mind most prominently; a day too special to forget because it so significantly changed my life.
Christmas day 1994 began as many others had in the past. Six o’clock came and I was already awake, my suffering relieved only by the thrill of anticipation. Quarter to seven found me creeping across the hall to see if either of my brothers were up yet. We spent the remaining forty-five minutes bearing the agony in whatever way we could: speculating as to the contents of several inviting packages that waited what seemed like hours away for anxious fingers to tear them open; discussing if Santa Claus had indeed eaten the cookies this year and if he would accept our letter of apology for having forgotten to leave out enough carrots for the reindeer last year; and of course, when would mom and dad get up!? Here was the first divergence from our typical Christmases though, because mom wasn’t here this year. Nine months and three weeks pregnant, my mother had finally been driven to the hospital, through a snow storm, to be induced into labor. Complications had forced her to stay there through Christmas, and as far as I knew, nothing had happened yet.
“Dear Lord, please let it be a sister!” I had prayed time and time again, but with especial fervor the last few days. I was the only girl up to this point, six years old and sandwiched between two rowdy brothers, who, though fun to play with, cared little for “royal tea parties” and dressing up to play “court” or “house”. Both were very imaginative themselves, yet simply chose to direct their attentions elsewhere (war games and weapon construction).
Seven-thirty was not five seconds old before we had sprung into action. Like high-strung racehorses, the instant the gate clicked open we were gone, thundering down the stairs, slowing just enough make the corner around the banister. Traditionally we attack the stockings first. This year was no different. Our onslaught gained momentum at the sight of the three lumpy stockings, sagging heavily from their hooks on the mantel piece. Ian and Bruce raced ahead of me and tore relentlessly in past the red and green corduroy cloth of the oversized sock, but something caught my eye, and oddly enough, I stopped. Standing there beside the tree in my blue footless blanket-sleeper a tingle coursed up my spine and reverberated in the hollow of my chest. The giggles and joyful gasps of my two brothers seemed distant, illusory, even the fire in the wood stove crackled and radiated surreally.
My eyes had fastened on my stocking. Pinned to it was a button bearing the message I had so feverishly hoped for. It’s A Girl!!!!!!!!! It screamed in pink. A girl! What you’ve been waiting for! All that you had asked for! The one thing! It’s true, it’s real! Yesssss! Meanwhile my two brothers had paused for a moment to watch my silent revelry. With shaking hands I fumbled to unfasten the button, but it was more than my eager little fingers could manage. Gently, kindly, my dad popped the clasp and worked the sharp point out of the soft, red corduroy.
“Here you go, Pip.” He said, pressing the button into my small hand. He was smiling, a warm, happy smile.
“Thanks Daddy.” I replied. I reached up to give him a hug, smiling myself. He gave me one of his big bear hugs in return and I buried my cold nose in the warm plaid flannel of his pajama collar. He smelled of freshly brewed coffee, the kind they grind at the general store every morning to make the air smell of Africa and Peru. I could still smell wood smoke and bee’s wax in the cloth. He had read the story of the first Christmas by candlelight the night before, and even now the fragrance of Yankee Candle’s vanilla hazelnut lingered on.
With a satisfactory sigh I curled up in the pink recliner near the fire, my pin still clasped in my hand. My cheek brushed against the soft lamb’s skin throw draped over the back of the chair, a swathe that would soon enwrap my sister. In contented silence I relished in these comforts: the spicy aroma of sausage baking in the Christmas casserole, steeping apple cider swirled with cinnamon sticks, the music of Christmas carols intermingled with the muffled howl of a December wind capriciously whipping snow flakes about. But I was safe inside, warm, conscious of all these sensations. While the snow swirled the last lingering notes of Oh Holy Night gave way to strains of Handel’s Messiah, For unto Us a Child Is Born.
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