Merry the Night

It's Christmas Eve and I'm eating watermelon. Rob is baking a lemon cake for tomorrow's get-together with my parents, and it smells wonderful, but all I want for dessert is fruit. I've already reached some kind of toxic load for sugary treats. However, I did play my part in the Santa game and eat one of the two cookies Westley left out.

Last year, Westley decided on his own that he believed in Santa Claus. Rob and I were planning to leave Santa Claus in that gray area of "this is a story some people tell," but no. Westley declared that Santa absolutely would be coming down our chimney. And so he did.

A couple weeks ago, Westley asked me if Santa was vegan. I said I didn't know, and asked Westley what he thought.

"I think he might be," he said thoughtfully.

"It's possible," I agreed.

Westley decided that he would leave vegan cookies and soy milk for Santa. "And some vegan sushi!"

Perfect.

Right in the middle of wrapping a book and minding the cake, Rob bolted down the hall. "What's up, buddy?"

Westley, awake and bleary-eyed, was trying to see past his dad and into the living room. "Can I stay up?" he asked.

"No," Rob told him gently. "Santa can't come if you're not asleep."

Westley promptly burst into tears.

"Oh, sweetie," I joined the back-to-bed effort, taking Westley in my arms, "is it hard to sleep?"

He nodded, still teary.

"Would you like me to sing?" I asked.

He nodded again. "Bad Romance."

(I sometimes wonder if I've sung that song more times than Lady Gaga has. When Westley was still napping, my singing "Bad Romance" at a slowed-down, lullaby pace was a twice-daily thing.)

Westley was asleep before the end of the second verse, but I sang the rest anyway. Sitting in the glider, with Rob on a pillow on the floor and Westley dozing in his bed, I realized that the exhaustion and anxiety that had ruled a good portion of my evening had been completely washed away by the sweetness of my little family. I sang Elton John's "Your Song" to keep us sitting there a little longer.

It's still relatively early in the night, and we're basically ready for tomorrow morning. The kitty is nestled up close to Rob's lap, and I can see a glass of wine in my peripheral vision. Somehow, everything is wrapped, baked, and stuffed into stockings, as appropriate. The kitty's stocking posed a bit of a challenge. (A bottle of catnip bubbles is bigger than a mini-stocking, it turns out.) But Rob was happy to declare, twice, "I'm a master at putting too-big things inside of too-small things."

How lucky am I?

* * *

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night('s sleep).

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