Isobel: "I burped at your face!"
Daddy: "You burped IN my face. That's not very nice."
Isobel: "Can I have my kiss now?"
Daddy: "OK." (Leaning in again)
A second burp was delivered to my face in earnest. Followed by more howls of laughter.
Daddy: "Hey now!"
We sat for a time and a burp of my own bubble up and passed through my lips.
Daddy: "Gimme a kiss."
Isobel: "No way!"
Daddy: "What? Why not. You wanted a kiss from me a minute ago."
Isobel: "That was different, I wanted you to smell my burp. You had YOUR burp now. I do not want to get your breath all over me."
I was a peeker of Christmas presents...well maybe more of a weak willed non-peeker. I wanted to have a look, desperately but something would ultimately prevent me from doing so. Likely the thought of my Mother flaying the skin off of my ass with whatever was close enough to hit me with. I remember one year my brother and I actually crossed the line and looked in my parents closet. (It might have been just me but I recall an accomplice) I remember waking up that Christmas morning knowing full well what would be waiting under the tree for me and I remember feeling empty and kind of ripped off because all of the excitement had been let out of this mind blowing experience. I got A Planet of the Apes tree house adventure set and a couple of Big Jim Wolf Pack action figures. I played with them all day and loved them and played with them until the eventually wore out. But for a long time, it gnawed at me that the experience of getting them could have been just that much better if I hadn't known they were coming. I think my brother continued to snoop for many Christmases after that...he could always do it and leave virtually no evidence but for me that was the last time. I liked the surprise more...the getting and the giving of them...still do.
Why the jaunt down memory lane? Apart from the fact that I am hurtling toward middle age and random flashes of mostly insignificant mental pablum are par for the course now, Izzy is fast becoming Daddy's little girl and a budding peeker in her own right. She started coming downstairs while I am on the treadmill again. At first I was chuffed about it. Glad of the company and then I thought about it...She hasn't been downstairs with me since the summer and she hasn't actually been anywhere near me the whole time she is down there. She has put on her usual costumes and picked up her usual props and laid them out in a careful, and in a planned manner but I didn't actually see her playing with anything.
I do remember a conversation with her the other day though.
"Daddy?" she asked.
"Yep?"
"Are you Santa?" she asked, looking a little worried about the response she might get.
"Of course not." I said not lying.
"But how come If Santa makes all the toys, I get presents from Santa and you and Mummy?"
'God-damn," I thought. "If she is throwing out reasoning and logic like that at five, by the time she is a teenager I am completely screwed.'
"Well you see," I began. "Santa makes all the toys in his workshop but he knows that sometimes Mummies and Daddies are just busy."
"Daddy, what does that even mean?" Isobel puzzled.
"That's not what I mean," I sputtered, fumbling for an answer. "What I mean is that sometimes you mention things that you want and Mummy or I see them while we are out and we buy them for you and Santa knows what you want already so he doesn't bring you those things and those are the ones you get from us."
"Is that true?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "It feels like the truth."
"Well you're definitely not Santa, are you?" she said a little exasperated.
"Nope." I said, not lying.
Shortly after this exchange she was downstairs with me, pretending to play. With a sudden strange burst of logic, it dawned on me that if she wasn't playing she was doing something else. And since she was only five, it couldn't have been too sinister...I hoped.
I went downstairs after I had put her to bed to see for myself and sure enough, my suspicions were correct. Her costumes and toys were all laid out like the ruse they were intended to be, my old cane, the Mrs. Claus hat and various bags and boxes all strewn about as a series of stumbling blocks and pit falls. And there in the back room, was clear evidence of snoopery. All the Christmas boxes had been ripped open and rifled through. (The fine art of snooping undetected will come with practice...I'm certain her uncle can help with this) I understood the logic she used in going through the boxes that contained the Christmas decorations, Christmas crap...perfect place to hide presents. And if you think of it, what a brilliant place to keep the Chrimbo prizes? Who would look in the empty boxes of decorations for a present? Isobel, that's who. The kid is devious... Dr. Moriarty's illegitimate daughter.
The other end of the scale, is The Boy. He who loves a surprise as much as me and has very little interest in ruining the surprise...even if you offer to tell him what his gifts are. He enjoys his own surprises however, he has no trouble letting the cat out of the bag for anyone else's surprise.
The first Christmas I spent in this house, before Mrs. Narrator and I were even married, (that's us being sinful on the lord's birthday) I had decided to replace the squalid food encrusted Korean war issue microwave oven with something a little more snappy looking and more modern. For the record that wasn't the only thing I got her that year, I did get her fun things too, they just escape my memory at the moment.
At any rate, I didn't drive at the time and so begged a ride from a work mate who happened to be going to the store I was getting the microwave from. I fought my way through the crowds and got the stainless steel beauty. I was proud of myself for buying something useful and ultra modern looking for the house and super pleased that it was and would be a total surprise for her on Christmas morning.
She was making dinner as I walked in the door.
"Don't turn around." I said.
Mrs. Narrator did not turn and would remain oblivious to what I had gotten her. The Boy (who was all of about five if I remember) walked up to investigate. I put a finger to my lips, motioning for him not to say anything to his mother. He put a finger up to his lips and said,
"Holy crap, Sid bought a new microwave!"
"It's not a microwave," I said. "It's just in a microwave box."
"Why would you put something else in a microwave box?" he asked.
And you wondered where his sister got the logic from...
It became the Christmas Mummy got a blender that looked like a microwave. We still have the microwave to this day. I have made the mistake a couple of times of telling him what I have gotten his Mother for Christmas and he has ratted me out nearly every time. There is no malice in it, he just is excited to see the people he loves get things he thinks they will like. Waiting for pesky things like gift giving holidays to roll around is inconsequential. No one has ever had hurt feelings and so all is good and right.
Happiness has no time constraints, joy happens now. The gifts remain locked in the trunk of my car... and none of us ever mentions to The Boy what anyone is getting for Christmas...ever.
We were reading a story about trains the other night and she stopped at a word she was unsure of.
"What`s that say?" she asked.
"Coal." I replied.
"What's coal?" she asked again.
"What Mummy is going to get in her stocking for Christmas." I said trying to be oh so clever.
"What?" she asked "What...what does...wait what now?"
"When I was young and when my parents were young and their parents and so on and so on, if you were naughty at Christmas time Santa would give you a lump of coal in your stocking."
"So what is coal?" she asked a third time.
"Long time ago, they used coal to heat your house, they burned it in the furnace and that would heat your house." I said.
"So if Santa gave you coal, you could stay warm in your house?" she asked.
"What...wait, what ?" I sputtered.
"Why would Santa give you something good if you were bad?"
"You're missing the point," I said. " "Instead of toys you would get...ahh never mind." I said defeated. It would likely be too hard to explain and wouldn't translate well. I have been showing her videos of the Krampus, the European monster that takes the bad kids away to some god forsaken place, since she was small. What fear can a lump of coal possibly hold?
As I kissed her goodnight and put off her light she called out to me.
"Daddy?"
"Yes Pick?"
"What the hell is a stocking?"
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