Thursday, December 1, 2005: Claire (4) ended up sleeping with us last night. I wake up and roll over and watch her. A few minutes later she gently opens her eyes, turns her head and says sweetly, “I hate you Dad. Sorry.” Sorry, not as in feeling bad or having regrets, but establishing that this is just the way things are. Then she turns back over, and goes peacefully back to sleep.
Saturday, December 2, 2002: “Now Matt (4), you’re not going to run around during church today, are you?” “No…I’ll walk around.”
Friday, December 2, 2005: __ and __ come over, and stay over. Drew (14) wanted to watch something. For awhile she flashes handwritten messages at me. “?” “!” Eventually she retires, defeated.
Friday, December 3, 1999: The girls go out. The boys and I go out to shovel. Spence (3) is thrilled, happy to see the pavement under the snow. Matty (1) is a tough man. He falls fairly repeatedly, and once while helping him up I drop the shovel on his head. That might not have been a good idea. But there’s never a squawk from him. He just walks around with a kind of benevolent, extremely interested look on his face.
We go back in. The lads play nicely, as usual. Sharon goes for food, and Matt to bed. Spencer and I read A Snowy Day, and after we cut out a snowflake, then an owl. We read about millions of cats, and sit by the warm air. It takes very little to have a joyful day with a small person.
Sunday, December 3, 2002: “Dad,” says Matt (4). “Are you ‘wake?” “Yes, Matty.” “Then get up and get me some oatmeal!”
Sunday, December 3, 2006: We cuddle up in front of the First Presidency’s Christmas broadcast. Elder Faust gives a lovely talk about poverty and charity at Christmas time. He is a bit careless, making a comment that not very indirectly indicated the real identity of Santa Claus, and the real source of his gifts. My eyes tiptoe around the room. Claire is occupied, and Matt wasn’t paying attention. Spencer (10, for heaven's sake)? I turn slowly to him, and find him staring at me with wide eyes.
How hilarious. How mortifying! I draw him to me, as if that means or helps anything. After the program is over I sneak him away, to see if I could damage control, or at least commiserate. “Actually,” he says, “I already knew.” I wonder how. “Remember last year?” Ah yes—when I was stuffing stockings in the boys' room a little earlier than I should have, and suddenly felt a pair of bright and penetrating blue eyes upon me. A little later Spence comes back to elaborate. “I still do believe, you know. Santa Claus was a real person, and the idea is true.” Lovely boy!
Friday, December 5, 2003: At home, the girls announce that they’re going shopping. Sharon gets some mileage and ministering out of these excursions, but I find that I have some mixed feelings. Can anything good ever come out of commercialisms? I find myself, with some end-of-the-week enervation, in charge of these little guys, who deserve more organization and energy than I have at the moment. I stall with a library video of NFB Christmas films. The boys (7 and 5) are chattering in a Christmasy way.
Then I have a tiny inspiration. Everyone waits, eyes sort of closed, while I string up some Christmas lights in their bedroom. They come in. The effect is kind of scintillating. Everyone jumps around. They stay in the room and play sweetly and harmoniously and at very great length. Every once in awhile they break for a guitar-accompanied carol. There’s actually joy in the room, and mine too. Once again we learn that the elaborate isn’t always necessary. The little that we eke out of our exhaustion may be sufficient.
Monday, December 5, 2005: We get a tree from the IHOP lot. Caitlin (16) and Drew (14) don’t come, which is actually fine. Claire is interested (4), but the boys (still 7 and 5) are actually giddy. We have a great time setting up in the family room. Lights, scent, the fireplace, atmosphere.
Monday, December 6, 2004: Caitlin (15) makes a movie for Spanish class. She scripts and directs, Drew (13) and Sarah (11) are the principle other-actors, while I shoot and help.
Really fun! We have to take breaks to get the younger girls' phonetical pronunciation down. Sharon is the guest villain, the victim turned vengeance in the film’s central ring-and-run section. Her Dionysian interventions are a bit upsetting to the artist, though most delightful to the rest of us. “¿Elderes?” “¡Demonios! ¡Patojos!” Running, chasing them a hundred and fifty metres down the street (or about a hundred metres past the end of the shot; the girls kept going too, feeling that little kid thrill of comic horror).
Sunday, Dec. 6, 1998: Lesson on Christmas. Separating exciting from important. Traditions we like and want. Drew (7) wants candy put in shoes. We think we should make a seasonal donation to some secular charity. Maybe we should sponsor a youngster in the developing world.
We fashion a family Christmas letter. Spence (2) says, “uh-oh, it’s Christmas.” Sarah (5) has a bundle of good wishes and good advice. “I hope everybody will be okay. Have a good, merry Christmas. Have good decorations. Say prayers. And be good to your family. Listen to God. I hope you have enough books to read and food to eat.” Drew is more reportorial: “Matt is rolling around and Spencer is very happy. We’re not doing anything—just sitting around.” Caitlin (9) has the right idea. “We’re getting a tree tomorrow. I’m so excited! I hope all you readers out there have a merry Christmas. We’re doing great!”
Saturday, December 7, 2002: There’s a Christmas party at church. Drew and Claire and I stay home. Sharon causes something of a scandal with her naked lady t-shirt. Well there was a Hawaii theme.
Sunday, December 7, 2003: We had a terrific testimony meeting today. There’s tender-hearted Bro. __, a dying old fellow whose cancer has come back, lots of good doing-their-best folks. The day is low and cloudy and misty. Mum has got the house perfectly clean. We all watch the first, Christmas section of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander. Many smiles. Spence (7) is carefully following along with the subtitles. “Old bitch,” he sounds out very carefully. Many more smiles.
