We landed safely in southeastern Washington on Christmas Eve. It was great to hug family, share a meal, toast wine. I felt especially excited to be Santa this year. Because Margot is at an age where wonder and excitement reign and I finally came to terms with my lying-to-my-kids-about-a-flying-gift-giving-man hangup.
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Margot picked two clementines and three carrots to leave for the reindeer and one peanut butter cookie for Santa. I went to fetch a glass to fetch a glass of milk and she told me she didn’t want Santa to have her milk. She said, “I really do think Santa will like that icky milk.” pointing to Ruby’s goat milk. “Mama, Santa loves goat milk a lot.”
I made a mess in the house, traipsing fire place ash and carrot chunks all over the floor. I filled stockings and finished up some gift-making. I had the hangup about Santa because of my own sadness when learning it was only his “spirit” that lives. I found comfort in my memories. My memories are of the magic and love. My memories are of excitement over the very idea that Santa had been in my living room and taken the time to write my brother and me a note, of laying in bed and watching my clock for hours, waiting until 6am when I could finally wake my parents.
So, Santa came to our Walla Walla stead and it was really fantastic.
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| Santa brought pajama pants for everyone. |
In the wee hours on Christmas morning Ruby, Alice and I drove the dark, damp streets of Walla Walla searching for butter and I also came to terms with a need I have: to make lists so that I can save myself the time and frustration of forgetting and having to punt. I wrote about it in this week’s mama digs, making a list, checking it twice.
