29

QUODLIBET

My parents have always said that if you do something as a family for three years in a row, then it’s a tradition. For the Fox kids, once was enough. After their first Christmas, I overheard the kids talking: “. . . and we always get to open two presents on Christmas Eve, but one is from our parents, and we always know what it is because they always give us feet-y pajamas, and we always get to wear them that night and then all day long on Christmas day . . .”

Our Christmas season begins immediately after Thanksgiving dinner. We surrender our forks and, stuffed, move slowly to the piano. The lodge is cheery, but chilly; the propane heater is working overtime, the roaring fire in the fireplace creating an illusion of warmth. I sit down at the grand piano. Before I became a mother, I used to squander happy, careful hours tuning this piano; it is holding its pitch better than most of my other neglected hobbies. Everyone grabs a songbook, Jimmy opens the lid, and we stand around the piano singing through our Christmas carols. Dan stands behind me, watching the music over my shoulder and singing in his heart-melting baritone.

Is it corny? Hell yes! We’re a Norman Rockwell on steroids, singing together as loud as we can and these are carols, mind you, not Christmas songs; no Frosty or Rudolph here. This is straight up “Hark the Herald” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” No chaser. “Deck the Halls” is the hippest chart we got and the kids love it. They talk about the Christmas carols weeks before Thanksgiving, “Remember, Mom? And then we always sing the Christmas carols before we eat the pie? And then for ‘Silent Night,’ remember? We always sing the second verse without the piano?” It’s appalling, this level of cheer.

Audrey reads in the corner, embarrassed for us, half cringing, half admiring of the kids’ willingness to suspend their pasts and be innocents. I understand why she can’t join us. She reads, watches, and smiles as we dive head first down a month-long slippery slide of sugar cookies, and careen into a vat of figgy pudding.

It’s our first Christmas with their new sister Audrey, we crank the radio to the popular Christmas station as we drive home from the lodge. The kids know all the words. We put Christmas music on the sound system when we get home. Dan buys the biggest tree on the lot and ties it, canoe-like, to the top of the van. He holds the tree upright in the tree holder, while the four oldest kids each grab a stabilizing bolt and start screwing it into the base. The kids remember who put the star on top last year, whose turn it is this year, whose turn it will be next year, and the year after that. We cut out paper snowflakes and tape them to the windows, make red-and-green chains from construction paper to wrap around the tree and down around the banister. The first Christmas upstate, Dan changed the lights in the chandelier, mixing in red and green bulbs with the white ones. We never changed them back. This is a Christmas house, year round.

We have twenty or so plush velvet Santa hats that I bought at the Salvation Army in New York City. We put them on and do not take them off—indoors, outdoors, Santa’s is the hat of choice for the month of December. Jason and Jimmy arrange the nativity scene on the upright piano; Anthony hangs the stockings over the fireplace in age order. It takes him a few times, but he gets it. Ruby and Susie untangle the lights and wrap them around the tree, top to bottom. We have our alcohol-free Wassail on the stove, its fragrant aroma adding harmony to our Christmas mix. The mood is calm and friendly.

Before the kids can send Santa their wish list, they have to make a list of gifts to give each other. We call social services and ask for a family that we can help during the holiday, a different family every year, usually a single mom with two or three kids. They give us the first names, ages, and sex of the children, along with a list of things that the kids might like. We put their information on the refrigerator and brainstorm: Toys, sure, but maybe they could also use some food? How about diapers? That’s a good idea, they’re expensive, and the little one is just two years old. Susie says, “How about some lotion? It gets kind of dry in the winter.” Excellent. We write that down.

Jimmy says, “If they don’t have any money, maybe we should give them some money. I can give them ten dollars from my savings.” Dan agrees it’s a good idea. We will match any Fox child donation times three. “So if you give ten dollars, Jimmy, and we donate three times that, how much will the family get?”

There is a pause, “Um, so you give them thirty dollars, and I give them ten dollars, so they have forty dollars.” Christmas math.

All the kids donate what they are comfortable giving. We wind up with two hundred dollars for the family. “That’s going to help!” Yes it will.

Now the kids can give us their wish lists to Santa. We order most of the stuff online, my tutor-elves help me with the rest. “Dan, are we spoiling them?” He answers quietly, “Not possible.” We put out presents from the family under the tree and rearrange the furniture to make room for the slot car track. Dan has the kids assemble the track as a group, then races them, hour after hour, all the while Christmas music playing in the background.

* * *

The Fox family Christmas Party. Show time. The kids make the invitations to our “Holiday Open House,” and we photocopy them onto red and green paper. Each kid takes a stack to school, to the YMCA, the library, and to our neighbors. Everyone is welcome.

A few days before the party, I was waiting for Jason in the lobby of his elementary school and one of the teachers came up to me, “You’re having an open house, with no RSVP?” I smiled, “That is correct.” She said, “Did you know that Jason photocopied one of his invitations when he got here this morning? Every child, teacher, and staff member in this school has an invitation.” I laugh at Jason’s generosity. “That’s awesome,” I say. “Bring ‘em! We’re ready! Are you coming?” She laughed, “Yeah, I’m coming. This I have to see.”

The kids place bowls and bowls of clementines in the window sills, on the desks and tables, baskets of mixed nuts in their shells and nutcrackers standing by. We have soups on the stove, English tea rings, plates of cheese and crackers. Guests bring cookies, candy, and sugary goodness to share. We play Christmas music on the sound system and then, at the top of every hour, the kids pass out their hand-decorated caroling books to the guests, “I made this one, I hope you like it . . . It’s a manger scene with a snow angel.” They gather people to the piano and we kick it up. “Angels we have heard on high, gently singing o’er the plain . . .” I put the piano lid up on full stick. The louder I play the piano, the louder everyone sings.

We have potato soup on Christmas Eve, an advance penance for our excess the following day. Dan and I leave cookies and milk for Santa, put the kids to bed, and then stay up until the wee hours wrapping gifts. It’s our Christmas wish for our kids to feel valued, precious, adored, and indulged. Dan and I wake from our short sleep to the psychic energy of excited children waiting, the house vibrating with anticipation. The rule is, no one leaves his or her room until Dad calls everyone down, which will not happen before 7 a.m. We lie in bed, Dan and I, giggling, torturing them, making them sweat it out until 7:01. Then we release them into the spoils of Christmas morning, a free-fall frenzy of delight, shrieks and superlatives fly about the room like confetti. It’s a wrapping paper ticker tape parade, a welcome home for our hero children, brave and strong.

And what’s this? Santa brought us seven boxes of sugar cereal? A children’s heaven. We eat one box a day until the New Year. On December 26 we go out to dinner at the Jade Buffet, an all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant. There is a whole table just for fried food, an express train to a heart attack. There is pudding at the dessert table, a dream come true. We lounge. We do nothing. We play with our toys, go sledding, and watch movies. The mood is happy. Happy family.