Correction: I find that I must once again perform an apology before continuing with my ramble. I don't think my children realized when I began this blog, how often they would find themselves to be the 'star' of the show. I have already been brought to task, a.k.a. reminded sternly, a.k.a. lectured, regarding the 'Freaky Finger' blog that, 'It was NOT jammed, it was in fact broken in three places.' Naturally, I assumed that the comparison of said finger to a lightning bolt alluded to that fact since generally speaking something that goes from straight to accordion-shaped in the space of five seconds is usually broken; alas I was wrong. And so I stand corrected. The Freaky Finger was indeed mangled beyond repair, it never really quite healed from its breakage, and is now and forever a Freaky Finger (thus the name.)
However, this error shall not slow me down because my children are what I consider excellent fodder for this blog (at least until they launch the first law suit whereupon I will have to reconsider my thinking and/or share in my millions [of pennies] but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it- if they don't push me off first- and honestly who could blame them?). Okay, so as I was saying, my children are excellent fodder because they are weird. They come by it honestly; they get it from me, so really I can't blame anyone but myself. I like to think of us as quirky, interesting and terribly entertaining; but most people just call us weird. Having said all of that, allow me to delve into the latest reminiscence (I know I am stuck…) that struck my brain at precisely two AM- really? Two? Could my brain have let me sleep a bit and THEN told me the tale. Apparently not, so this has been stewing about in my brain for the last six hours affording me very little sleep. In other words- if this sounds like pandemonium by the time I am done- it probably is- I've had no sleep and only a few sips of coffee. Best of luck keeping up!
Moving on.
It is a wonder- really it's a miracle- that my daughter celebrates Christmas at all in any form, because for her growing up, Christmas was a traumatic holiday akin to Halloween (I'm talking about the holiday AND the movie here!). Only one of my children can manifest such horrific fears over a perfectly innocuous holiday. But somehow she managed not only to develop a paranoia, but to hold onto it tightly with her chubby little hands (sans Freaky Finger) for nearly five years.
Allow me to explain ('cause you know I'm gonna!).
Let's set the scene: Christmas circa 1992- daughter- beautiful, angelic (looking but not acting) baby girl with pretty blonde curls and adorably chubby cheeks- she looked like a cherub. Christmas tree stands majestically in the living room, twinkling lights abound, garland contrasts brightly against the green boughs, and heaps of presents littered the entire surrounding area. Two babies- son a few weeks shy of three, daughter- a few cards shy of a full deck- I mean two months shy of one year. Both babies' eyes are wide, son with anticipation, daughter with curiosity. Okay, everyone say it with me: AWWWWW!
That's where the idyllic scene ends.
Son and daughter are each handed a gift. Son immediately starts tearing in- he's ridden this particular bull before- he knows this will be the greatest eight seconds of his entire almost three year existence- until the next present that is.
Daughter, upon witnessing the horror- oh the humanity of it!- of seeing her brother- a.k.a the Grinch- slash through the pretty paper- loses her ever-loving mind. She chucks her own gift as far away as she can get it, crab crawls across the living room where she then gives into hysteria- in the form of a screaming fit- for the next half an hour. Incidentally, that was exactly how long it took her brother to open all of his gifts as well as peruse what was in his stocking.
Evidently, my daughter had thought the tree and all the packages with their pretty paper and shiny bows had become a permanent part of the home décor and was NOT on board with the removal of it- especially in so violent a manner.
We spent the rest of the day attempting to coerce her into opening her gifts, which her brother finally did for her. But somehow, she blamed the toys. Those evil toys were at fault for this wanton destruction and she was making a stand. She was having NO part of them. For this reason, every single solitary toy- down to the last block- sat in a dejected pile in my living room for SIX months completely untouched by my daughter. In fact, her brother played with them for months after and she was only just beginning to allow some of them to integrate with the rest of her things in her toy box when the next Christmas rolled around. I am not exaggerating.
Further, because as I have mentioned her birthday was only two months following Christmas, I received many panicked calls from friends and family wanting to know what they could possibly get her for this milestone birthday. Naturally I encouraged everyone to purchase clothing and to 'whatever you do' NOT wrap them. My daughter received more clothes than she could ever possibly use, all neatly 'wrapped' in grocery sacks. She was delighted.
Okay, move ahead to next Christmas- surely she's gotten this under control by now- she's witnessed many a birthday and she has finally started playing with her toys from the year before- this will go much better right? Um, no. (But if you regularly read this blog you already knew that.)
The child is nearing two when she celebrates her second Christmas and once again refuses to participate in opening any gifts, in the end capitulating enough to allow one of her aunts to do so for her. Not that it mattered, because aside from a stuffed bear that she took an instant liking to (no idea why, but this thing was her BUD), she would have nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of her things. I was beginning to consider a change in religion because obviously I was never going to experience one of those Currier and Ives moments with my youngest child…
Ah, but alas there is sweet relief: firstly she deigned to play with these toys within about three months- we are making progress, and secondly on her birthday she opened gifts for the first time in her life- though she still tried to be gentle with the paper (as gentle as any two year old can be anyway).
So let's barge on ahead to Christmas #3. My daughter had spent the last year ogling and envying her two older cousins' Barbie dolls and there was nothing in the world she coveted more. She begged, pleaded and PRAYED for Barbie to find her way under the Christmas tree. And she did. Sort of.
One of her aunts purchased a Barbie (sort of- I know I keep saying that- but you will understand) for her. My daughter was tearing away the paper in her creeping semi-gentle fashion when- OMG- what should peer out of the box but the round smiling face of Barbie herself. Now if she had been more than three, my daughter might have suspected something as Barbie was not blond. Instead, she sported midnight locks- the first clue to the fact that she is an imposter. But alas, my child only saw the face, became excited and began tearing the paper away in a more hurried fashion.
I was in no way prepared for what happened next, I had no idea what was in the package. (After that I bought an x-ray machine and a metal detector in order to examine the packages more fully before handing them over to Ellen-eezer Scrooge. Okay, slight exaggeration, but you get the picture.) Anyway, this was 1994 and Disney's 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' was all the rage, though my children hadn't seen it because a) they were too young to really understand it, and b) I am one of those mean moms that feels the subject matter- a.k.a. Esmeralda was a bit of a slut and the priest is on sexual over-drive- is not really meant for children. Maybe it's just me, but all the same, I had avoided that film. Singing gargoyles or not, I didn't think it was appropriate. The aunt apparently did not hold the same qualms, and so she had purchased a generic version of the gypsy girl and her would-be boyfriend Quasimodo.
My daughter was appalled. Inside the box with her beloved Barbie was a monster who was trying to get her. The world was coming to an end. Panic ensued, the box launched across the living room (with much more force than she had been able to achieve at almost one) and there was no way to calm her. (Where was that damn bear from the year before, I ask you?)
Quasi got an unceremonious burial in the trash can, and it took some time to convince my daughter that 'Barbie' was unscathed and did NOT in fact have monster cooties and would not call anymore hideous beasts to her.
This was the same year my child received a 'singing' baby doll from her grandmother. My daughter, delighted by the new baby, began to hug it whereupon it began to sing (in a chorus of voices- really? A CHORUS? Seriously folks, does this baby have split personalities?) which naturally freaked her out and baby required emergency surgery to remove the Sybil box from inside its abdomen. It was a nightmare.
So finally we get to Christmas #4. The child is nearly five, you would think that this time she would experience a holiday that didn't send her straight to the nearest psychiatric office, right? Yeah, yeah, you know the answer. Nobody likes a smarty pants.
When the children were young, Santa used to take the extra measure of opening all the boxes and removing the eight billion twisty ties, plastic straps and miles of tape that a) would pose a choking hazard for small children, and b) would disallow said children the immediate enjoyment of their gift. Thank you Santa. It was a BRILLIANT idea- brilliant I say!
Until…
My daughter begins to open a sizeable gift (it was a Barbie car incidentally- Quasi had not managed to quash that passion). As she moved the box on her lap, the car- now freewheeling thanks to Santa's BRILLIANT scheme- rolls to one end. Repeat scene from year one and year three. Apocalypse!
There is a monster inside that box- she knows it with every fiber of her being. Something hideously evil is just waiting inside to jump out and grab her. Something alive, like, say, a viper. Either way, she is having no part of it, uh uh, not now, not ever, no way, NO SIR.
The only thing I can say is, Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus; and no, he's not out to get you.
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