So, it’s Christmas Eve. I’m home, with my boys, almost-eighteen and almost-twenty. No one believes in Santa anymore, the pressure is off. No more is-it-Christmas-yet every five minutes, no more present-hiding logistics, no more rang-y little sugar monsters.It’s a little sad, that the magic’s gone. I always like making Santa magical. I liked gnawing on carrots like a reindeer. I liked making baking-soda “magic unmelting snow” bootprints across the rug. I liked changing the paper and handwriting on the Santa presents, and individually wrapping everything in the stockings to make them last longer. I liked a great big annoying, needle-dropping, piney tree. I liked milk and cookies, and special sparkle dust that turns black if you’ve been bad (it never did). I even liked pulling festive tinsel out of the cat’s ass.
Tonight, we have a little tree, artificial, but it’s lit and it’s pretty. The boys have somehow, magically, turned into men. They’re beautiful men, wonderful, shining young men who both want to do meaningful work to help change the world. They love each other deeply, despite how very different they are. They are best friends, confessors, and defenders of each other, and of me.
We share wine, and confidences, buoy each other up and laugh and love each other.
I feel about six, I think. I’m still the first one up on Christmas day, still sneaking out to look at the tree, to see if Santa really came. Mostly I’m sneaking out to make sure everything is just so, and to make sure that my little family is really, really here.
Despite some financial challenges, everything has turned out beautifully. All is calm, all is bright. We went out to Primitive Designs today, and almost-twenty was seriously considering purchasing something that I already bought him weeks ago, so I know he will love it.
We’ll have a late-ish supper, light, because we’ve snacked on little Christmassy tid-bits all day. We’ll have a glass of wine, and probably turn in fairly early.
My life is good.