We’re coming up on our third Christmas with the Little Monster (LM), who is now eight (only ten more years to go. Nothing like a little corner cutting when raising a kid—start at age six and they’re off to try out for American Idol or join a gang before you know it). We think he’ll like the big gift he’s getting from us (not Santa) this year. I explained to him that since he’s getting older, his parents will now give him the big gifts. Santa will give him something small, because Santa needs to spend more time on special gifts for the littler kids. He agreed with the logic that Santa leaves smaller presents as we age, remembering that Santa had left only chocolate in my stocking last year (for which I was thrilled and rewarded Santa with good beer). In truth, LM no longer believes in Santa, but he’s afraid of the lack of presents that admission might entail, so I concocted that story as my “workaround.”
The universe sent us incredible gifts the past two Christmases, helping us to shoulder the challenges and difficulties of the year along with the added stress of the holiday season. On our first family Christmas, the big gift was of course the Little Monster himself. No matter how challenging his behaviors that first fall, there is nothing to match the joy of your child finding his new bicycle from Santa on Christmas morning. Especially when he had agonized and worried that Santa wouldn’t be able to find him in his new home. Does that break your heart or what?
We got a double miracle on our second Christmas together. As my first blog post describes, LM kicked his shoe onto the top of the community center roof, where it could not be retrieved. LM had no doubt that Santa would find the shoe on the roof and would then put it in his stocking (even if he had to backtrack). The extraordinary efforts and kindness of the community center staff enabled us to pull this off, and never did a child have stronger proof of Santa’s existence. His excited shriek over a muddy, smelly shoe could be heard up at the North Pole.
And on that same Christmas, the universe presented us with a magical little dog for LM. We wished her into existence, and our little wire-haired terrier ran up to us on our walk to church on Christmas Eve (the first time the Man I Married’s been to church in the 23 years I’ve known him, so I can truthfully say that I’ve been to church three times as often as he has).
For our third Christmas, LM is now more Little Monkey than Little Monster, which is gift enough. But a large box arrived from Hawaii, crammed full of macadamia nut treats and Chex mix, and I realized that our blessings are double yet again. The true gift is my mother, LM’s Tutu (Hawaiian for grandma). As she has done for the past two Christmases and past two end-of-school-years, she called me up and asked me, “Do you need gifts for LM’s teachers and daycare workers?” And social workers, therapists, school counselors, psychologist, rock climbing teachers, and respite workers? Not to mention our many neighbors (more gifts from the universe) who help to nourish and include LM in a large and loving circle of care? Not only had I not had the time and energy to shop for token thank you gifts for the huge team that supports us, but I had not even remembered, yet again, that I needed to buy them. “Sure,” I said, and within days, a sixteen pound box, costing her $45.05 to mail, arrived, stuffed with dozens of Hawaiian treats to use as gifts (I ate all the Chex mix—Tutu makes the most ono, using secret ingredients like curry).
Although it’s not an absolute truth, there is a lot to be said for the old trope that you can’t fully appreciate your parents until you become a parent yourself. As my witty friend Ann says, our mothers love to push the buttons that they sewed on, but Tutu has pulled out all of the stops on being a solid rock for MIM and me on our unusual parenting journey. For instance, Tutu doesn’t like to drive. She doesn’t drive at night, she doesn’t drive in strange (much less big) cities, and she doesn’t drive other people’s cars. She is blind in one eye so has good reason for caution. But on her first visit out to meet LM, intrepid, petite Tutu used a ladder to climb into my ancient four-wheel drive and manhandled it all over Seattle—day or night, rain or not-as-much-rain—searching high and low for a particular item we needed for LM. She pinned down salespeople, took notes, and copied them out for me, with footnotes, an annotated glossary, and highlights. She filled my freezer with her onolicious food, sharpened my knives (the only way she could stop herself from kvetching about them), and quickly left the house with a knowing laugh when it was apparent we were about to have a scene (such as the night LM dumped his Brussels sprouts into the toilet, a crime that many people can understand). The woman who turns on her heating blanket when it drops below seventy braved two bleak Pacific Northwest weeks in February and March to fly out to help us (I still don’t get the school’s mid-winter break in February, on top of spring break in March. What the hell is up with that?).
I could fill the internet with how much Tutu has done to help us, preparing the most amazing meatloaf of my life when the chips were really down (gourmet meatloaf! Who knew?). Love really can be expressed in meatloaf and Chex mix (and, as MIM knows, in jewelry).
But mostly I want to thank her for loving and embracing my quirky, incomprehensible, enthusiastic, infuriating, always well-intentioned husband, and for welcoming the Little Monkey with her kind, generous, and creative heart, for the letters and cards she constantly sends him, and for the way that she cares for him and us while expecting nothing in return for herself. If Tutu herself is not a miracle, then I don’t know what is.
Tutu loves Christmas.
The only thing we love more than Christmas is Tutu.