Wendy – Rank Christmas

My teenagers are beyond believing in Santa.

I always thought I’d despair when that day arrived.

I don’t despair.

Oh, I enjoyed that time while it lasted.

But the day my youngest stopped believing was like the day he used his last diaper.

Every Christmas Eve, back when the kids still believed, we bundled down to my in-laws’ house. We ate pizza. We watched “A Christmas Story.”

And we slept over.

Santa, of course, delivered his wares to my in-laws’ house.

You can’t see this, but when I say “Santa,” I’m pointing at myself.

Me. I delivered Santa’s gifts to my in-laws’ house.

I’d gather Santa’s presents, and the presents from us mortals, and drag them to my in-laws’ house.

My mother-in-law helped me carry in Barbies and Hot Wheels, books and candy, plush animals and taxidermied animals.

Just kidding. I wanted to make sure you were listening.

I never gave my kids taxidermied animals. But my husband once gave them deer vertebrae.

I’m not even going to pretend I know why.

Each Christmas Eve, after the pizza was eaten, after the cookies were set out, we trotted off to bed.

And I waited.

Once my children’s soft snores reverberated through the house, Santa got to work.

Still pointing at myself when I say “Santa,” here, guys.

My husband ate Santa’s cookies. My father-in-law refilled my wine glass. My mother-in-law helped me position Hess trucks and Pokémon cards.

Then we all went to bed.

Again.

And again I waited.

Because Santa – yes, pointing at me – likes filling stockings. But Santa can’t stuff only the kids’ stockings.

Santa is too obsessive to leave that loose end. Santa would never sleep again.

So Santa stuffed everyone’s stocking. The kids. The adults. The pets.

Santa’s own.

Yep. Still me.

By the time I tumbled into bed, I was awake for twenty-four bleary hours.

Did I do it to myself? Absolutely. Did everyone have an awesome Christmas? For sure.

Except my husband.

Picture Ebenezer Scrooge and George Bailey having a curmudgeonly six-foot-two bearded baby.

That’s my husband.

He is adorably grumpy.

He financed my dive into the ball pit of Christmas, but he didn’t think it was practical, useful, or necessary.

Even though our teens no longer believe in Santa – not me this time – they still sleep at my in-laws’ place.

But after dinner, my husband and I head home. We curl up with wine and “It’s A Wonderful Life” – a routine that is practical, useful, and – yes – necessary.

Recently, our son realized this elaborate Christmas spectacle must have been costly.

“Thanks for paying for that, Dad,” he said.

“What?!” I sputtered. “What about all of my hard work?!” I asked.

This was not my best moment. I should have let my husband take his victory lap.

I didn’t.

I detailed everything I did all those Christmas Eves. The twenty-four hour day. The stuffed stockings. Lugging presents between houses.

“Yeah,” my son said. “But Dad paid for it.”

I capitulated. How could I argue?

He was being, well, practical.

Useful.

And yeah. Even necessary.