With Christmas drawing ever closer and my children almost grown, I am finding myself reminiscing a bit, back to the days when they were still small. Every year, it was my labor of love (frequently at the last minute) to make a Christmas dress for Lyra. They usually included smocking, lace, all the things you can get away with when you have a small girl who likes dresses. These had to be finished by Christmas Eve afternoon, because we always attended the children’s Mass at our church on Christmas Eve. Most years she needed new fancy shoes to go with it, so I would let her open one package on Christmas Eve: the one containing a brand new pair of black patent leather Mary Janes, to go with her dress.
The boys would be dressed up, too, in something I made if they were still toddlers (little Eton suits, or for Aaron one year, a set of green corduroy knickerbockers with a plaid shirt with gingerbread men smocked on it – he was two at the time). If they were older, I just forced them into slacks, nice shirt, dress shoes and a tie. They endured it, because Santa was coming, you know.
We always got to the church early, because for quite a few of the children’s early years we were in the choir. We sang for at least half an hour before the service. (Pat has a lovely baritone voice. I am average, but very enthusiastic.)
I remember one year in particular, when Lyra and Aaron were small. Two children were needed to take the statue of the infant Jesus to the crèche on the altar as part of the opening procession. Lyra and Aaron were asked and agreed to do it. They were probably about 9 and 5 at the time. (I not sure, really, but somewhere in there.) Lyra, being the typical older sister, took charge and poor Aaron never stood a chance. My eyes – those of their mother, peering down from the choir loft - could see her bossing him about the right way to do it all the way down the aisle! Poor little guy, but they did look sweet.
I have several lovely Christmas memories from being in the choir loft. Several years, the church was dark and we (the choir) took small taper candles and filed into the sanctuary, lining the aisle leading up to the altar and singing O Come All Ye Faithful, first in English and then in Latin as the procession made its way to the front. Most years, Pat and a young woman with a beautiful soprano voice would sing O Holy Night as a duet during communion. They soloed on some parts and sang together at others. It was always wonderful. One memorable year, the church was darkened again after communion and someone sang a solo of Silent Night into the dark quietness. It was so peaceful.
We always went home slowly, driving around in the cold night to see the Christmas lights all over town as we went. They were the prettiest when it was snowy. Then at home, it was time for photographs before the kids were allowed to take off their good clothes (which had to be set out to wear again the next day to Denver – I always forced them to look nice at Christmas when they were little). They posed with and without their stockings (I knitted each of them a stocking) in front of the tree and in front of the fireplace both, and they always thought it took way too long. Funny, they still say that about Christmas photos. Then stockings were hung and “The Night Before Christmas” was read aloud before Pat and I ran them off to bed. After our work was done, we always left the tree lit (it was a real one back then, often one we cut in the mountains) and Christmas music on the radio. Even to my grownup eyes the scene was magical.
Early (very early) mornings with stockings get into and Santa’s presents under the tree, packages from each other to open later in the morning when Pat and I were moderately awake…I do miss those days. We still have the stockings, but no one gets up at the crack of dawn now and Santa doesn’t leave presents under the tree anymore. Still, I will always cherish those memories. The wonder of a small child at the magic of Christmas is something that will always be unrivaled in my heart.
-She Wolf (c) 2007
