'Twas the Night Before Christmas...

It is the night before Christmas at 4320 Roswell Court, and blissful calm has settled over my life. In my eleven years of life in Jackson, Mississippi, I have not spent a single Christmas here. We have always been long gone this time of the year, sleeping on an air mattress in my parents' basement, living out of our suitcases and, more recently, trying to keep my kids from stuffing their snacks in my parents' DVD and preventing other similar sorts of grandmother's home disasters. I kinda' like Christmas at my house. It's been low-key, it's evolved spontaneously, and it's been easy, for the most part. I'm sad that it's the last Christmas we will have here.

Tonight we have been to the family Christmas Eve service at church (which was packed so we sat in the choir loft, which Lucy LOVED.) She fell asleep in my lap, and awoke to the postlude of a brass quartet playing "Go Tell It On the Mountain," which she proceeded to sing, top 'o her lungs, all the way out of the gymuary. Now home, the children have written to Santa (priceless) and had their deadly coughs heavily medicated, they have been bathed, read to, prayed with, and are tucked snuggly in their beds. The packages from Santa are out, and stockings are stuffed. The dishes are done and the house is quiet. Michael (sadly) is working in Vicksburg tonight, but is happily ensconced in hours of the Discovery Channel (Dirty Jobs...not sure what the appeal is, except that perhaps someone's job is more distasteful than his on a Christmas Eve in a depressing and dark hospital). I (happily) have the television tucked snuggly in its' bed and am listening to John Rutter Christmas music as I sit at my laptop and write. The rain persists outside the kitchen window, and the temperature keeps dropping. It is good to be indoors, to be warm, to have quiet. Soon, dear friends will stop by to bring fabulous gumbo for us to eat tomorrow and give me Christmas love.

Mine is a merry Christmas.

Despite all of the chaos of Christmas, I think we have managed to survive, and salvage, a more enduring image of what the season means than what the world outside our doors screams to my kids. Much to my surprise this year, I struggled to keep up the "Santa story" with Lucy. (I am continually surprised by myself and my parenting of Lucy...your kids just make you sort of reinvent what you'd always thought about parenting, I guess.) Maybe it was her persistent questioning ("how do reindeer fly?" "can a man really fit down our chimney?"...a scary thought, actually... "how will he know if I have been good?" "sometimes I haven't been good, mama"), and I just didn't want to lie to her. (I mean, she is the one kid in a million who, upon discovering the hoax when she is 7 or 8, would feel seriously deceived by us.) Or maybe it was that Santa was getting all the "press" in her world and baby Jesus seemed like simply a nice addendum to the story. Or perhaps it was that she flat-out asked me: "Mama, is Santa real?" But I told her.

Well, I thought about it a lot, and I (thought, at least, I) worded it well. Nonetheless, the take-home message in the brain of Lucy Wood went something like this (and was proclaimed as such on the playground, announced at childrens' Christmas parties around town, etc...):

"Santa is DEAD!"

Despite our warnings, threats, etc...that she was not to talk to other children about this, and that other children's parents tell them what to believe, Lucy could not wait to spread the scandalous news. I think it's probably a good thing we're moving as far as this is concerned, because I'm pretty sure we might be run out of town otherwise by most Santa-loving parents in Jackson.

We seem to have recovered for the most part from the Santa is dead days...Lucy appears to buy my comparison of Santa and Ariel, Mickey Mouse, Mr. Incredible, etc... (thank you, Em), and so we can write him a letter, leave him cookies and scotch (Santa's specific instructions...a perk of her knowing who Santa really is), and an apple for Rudolph, and read "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," and she looks at me knowingly...as if she's in on the real story. Funny kid. Oh, and the most fabulous part of all of this (after, of course, the baby Jesus being the central figure of Christmas again) is that Mama and Daddy's stock has skyrocketed as far as Lucy is concerned. Now that it's clear who does the stocking-filling and gift-giving and all the rest, we are anew the coolest things on the planet. That's always fun. Short-lived, maybe, but I'm going to bask in any shred of glory I can wrangle up with that kid.

Michael will be home first thing in the morning, and hopefully we can keep the kids from discovering their stockings and loot before he gets home. He'll make the perfect fried eggs over-easy, pancakes and sausage. We'll open our presents to each other, also nice to do just amongst ourselves. Then we'll spend the day at home, just the four of us, before we pack up in the bus to go to the Smokies for Christmas with the Mark clan. Pigeon Forge, specifically, and a cabin my parents have discovered that will house all of us: 2 parents, 3 sisters, 1 brother-in-law, 3 cousins, 1 fiance, and 4 Woods. Over the river and through the woods...for real.

We will return home January 2 and get to the business of the new year...back into our routines and back to the reality of having to think about our move. Like, calling our realtor here and beginning the (dreadful) task of fixing up our home for someone else to live here. Makes my stomach churn to think about, much less write. So, for the moment I'm going to enjoy my warm, quiet, home. My very merry Wood family Christmas in rainy Jackson.

Wishing all of you a merry Christmas, however that looks for you. Much love to your homes from mine.