She had been spending he time frightening everybody with a flashlight.
Izzy:"I'm scary with this flashlight. Daddy, you try to scare me with the flashlight."
Daddy: "It's not going to be too scary if you know it's coming, right?"
Izzy: "No, just do it. It'll be scary alright."
Daddy:(holding flashlight under chin) "I am the ghost of Isobel's father...oooohhh..."
Izzy's Aunt called out that it was time to open presents.
Izzy:"Very scary Daddy. Now let's go have a look at what I always wanted."
Christmas day started early around our house this year...very early. The boy started coming in at 3:30 a.m.(NOT and exaggeration) and proceeded to come back every hour on the hour until we relented and finally got up at a quarter to seven. Izzy to her credit, had to be roused from her bed. And so we made our way downstairs, two racing-two stumbling and complaining about the time and the need for caffeine, to discover the true meaning of Christmas...gifts. Because that really is what it's all about stuff- and how much stuff you can get. He who dies with the coolest crap wins, right?
The living room was packed full with more crap for the kids then I frankly, remember buying. And the kids lost their minds...that's really the best way to describe it...and the kids lost their minds. I remember the first instance of a sound not unlike the ripping of paper, followed by a high pitched sound in the neighbourhood of high C and not much after that. I held a video camera, figuring to catch all of this merriment for posterity. The footage is all but useless. Blurs of whipping arms and that damned high pitch whine is all that I managed to capture.
And the kids lost their minds...and why not? I don't think any of us were any different. The gifts have changed along with the price tags but the madness is the same I'm certain. I don't doubt for a second that somewhere in my past is a relative who went mad with joy Christmas morning when he found out he got a pair of wool socks, so who are we to be any less joyous?
Isobel is my child without any doubt. She had ripped through three or four wrapped packages and was on to the next before the Boy had even finished reading the back of his first. The Boy who is incidentally, meticulous and careful in his gift opening, has a line of parentage separate form Izzy and though his Grandmother always sends a little something for Izzy, the simple fact remains that he gets more presents. I was in a similar situation when I was younger and it kinda bugged me back then. it was not lost on Izzy either.
After she had gone through all hers she looked at all he had left and asked, "Is that it? Is that all there is for me?"
I tried to explain to her about The Boy's grandmother.
"She likes to send presents at Christmas time and she sent you something too. She didn't have to but she did. And it wasn't that long ago that you were more interested in the paper than the gifts."
"I know that Daddy but now I like gifts. Are there any more for me?"
I find it strange and ironic that the entire build up to Christmas, all the guessing and hoping and buying and love and heartache, is over within five minutes of the first piece of paper being torn...and the kids lost their minds...
There are a couple of things that happened this year that really put Christmas into perspective for me. Were were sitting around the dinner table at my In-Law's place on Christmas day, after coffee and cake when Izzy suggested we sing. Like the miserable adults we are, nobody wanted to. Like the retired and nothing to lose guy he is, Mrs. Narrator's father started singing and shamed us all into joining him. we started off with Christmas carols that nobody knew all of the words to and meandered into The Beatles 'Yellow Submarine'(SumBarine Isobel corrected us) until we finally landed on 'On top of Old Smokey'
The unbridled happiness and zeal that was firmly displayed on Izzy's face was a look I will never forget. She seemed to get more out of the singing than any of the gifts she received...and she loved her gifts. She was pumping her hand across her chest like an old drunken sailor, absolutely rapt with joy. Of course, my camera was nowhere near...
The second happened only today. We were down in the basement, Izzy playing and me on the treadmill when I fully took in the glory that was my daughter.(also no camera) From bottom to top as follows; pink cow-girl boots, flower print short pyjamas and matching flower print tank top and Santa hat that is at least eight sizes to big. She wandered about the basement with a brown paper shopping bag making fart noises and thanking the lord.
"Phhttt, thank-you Jesus. Phhttt, thank-you Jesus. Phhht, not now Jesus, Phhhttt Oh Jesus, Phhhttt, come on Jesus, Phhhttt, thank-you Jesus."
...god bless us everyone...
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