The Sunday Memory Drawer - "Uncle" Christmas

With no kids to speak of, Christmas has taken on a different meaning for me over the years.  For those of you who have had to wake up super early on Christmas morning because your kid is tugging at your blanket to open presents, I have enjoyed the polar opposite for years.  

Sheer quiet.

With usually a late night at church on Christmas Eve, the morning after is usually the only day all year that I will actually sleep past 9AM.  Nobody pulling at the bed linens.   No scrounging around the house for batteries that you thought you purchased.  Crap.  This toy needs Double As and I got Triple As.

Nope, for me, it is crickets on Christmas morning.  

But I have been lucky in the past.   What does somebody without kids do at Christmas time?  Well, you simply steal somebody else's.

Even though I am an only child, I technically am an "uncle."  I've got six pseudo nieces and nephews and all of them are mentioned in my living trust, so good for them.  Don't spend it all in one place.  They're all grown-up now and hopefully they will remember all the DVDs and video tapes I gave them at Christmas over the years.  Someday they can keep my pantry supplied with ramen noodles and chocolate chip cookies.

But, back when I was in New York and they were all younger, I got to dote all over them around the holidays.  And, for the three in one family, I developed an annual tradition on Christmas Eve that I miss to this day.

I'd always go to their house for Christmas Eve dinner.  In New York during that era, I was not a church going fool.  But, with three kids running around during the day when the parents were in the final stages of wrapping and assembling, I hit on a novel way that I could help out.

I'd take them to the movies.  Actually, this ritual started when there were just two of them.   We did it so long that eventually a third child grew in the seat next to us.  So, while the parental units were putting the final touches for Christmas morning, I was loading them up with popcorn and Gummy Bears at the local cinema.

You see to the north of this blog entry the poster for "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation."  I remember this funfest fondly as it was one of the first movies for the Christmas Eve ritual.  I laughed as hard as anybody of the kids.  Naturally, this was interrupted countless times as I sat with them in the dark.

"Uncle Lenny, is this almost over?"

"Uncle Lenny, I have to go to the bathroom."

"Uncle Lenny, I just farted."

Yes, I know.

For a couple of hours, I was a parent.  I had to answer every question.  I had to do bathroom runs.  And yes, I had to make sure all car seat belts were attached.  It's probably a robotic action if you have kids.  For me, it was all alien.

And the best part of being an occasional parent is that you know there is an expiration date.    Usually a couple of hours away.

Of all the Christmas Eves I spent in my lifetime, the years of that afternoon movie were my very favorite.  Because kids are who the holiday is all about. 

I think back to that special night when I was their age.  I went through all the machinations of their belief in Saint Nick.  I remember mine. 

I bought into all the myths. The rooftop sleigh. Rudolph. The slide down the chimney.

Except, as I worried, my childhood house didn't have a chimney. Well, not one that was open. There was a pseudo-fireplace in our house downstairs in my grandmother's dining room. But, it was cemented shut and probably hadn't been used since Eleanor Roosevelt had straight teeth.

How was Santa Claus going to come into our house?

The answer confused me.

"He has a key."

Huh? If I had started to think about this implausibility, I would have stopped believing right then and there.

"So he knows that our fireplace is closed?"

The answer addled me some more.

"We tell him ahead of time."

Huh?? So, there are conversations with the man prior to the visit. When does this happen? And, if there has been a previous dialogue with Santa, how come the guy doesn't know to rinse out the glass after he downs the milk and cookies? Because, frankly, at our house, nothing freaked out my mother more than a dirty glass left to linger.

If there were personal meetings going on with Santa Claus, I wanted to be in on the action. In my small kindergarteny mind, I deduced that, with this front door key, Santa Claus would have to go up the narrow staircase to where our tree was. And a great way to do that would be to block the stairs.

Sometime, in the darkness of Christmas Eve, I pulled Zippy the Chimp and went to sit on the staircase. Nobody was going to get past me. I was going to be the sentry of our house and meet the guy with my own eyes.

And that's where they found me asleep in the morning.

Huh?

Up in the kitchen, there was a dirty glass drained of milk. How the heck did this happen???

Years later, in my role as "uncle," I wound up on the flip side of this obsession.  After amusing the kids with a movie while the adults played with Scotch Tape and wrapping paper, the young'ins would go to bed and the adults would imbibe some Bailey's Irish Cream until the wee hour.  I would even get to be the one who gobbled up the cookies and swigged down the milk.

One year, at around 1AM, the oldest child, Jason, bounced downstairs from his bedroom.

"Uncle Lenny, go home!!! Santa won't come if you're still here drinking!"

Yep, that Christmas Eve was over.   There would be others.   I miss them still.

Dinner last night:  Pepperoni pizza at Stella Barra.