Yes, Virginia

Swirling through the maze of death that is Ikea, I couldn’t help but do my best Swedish Chef impersonation and pronounce all of the product names solely for my kids enjoyment. Suddenly Gingerbread Houses became “Vintersagas” and cinnamon rolls are “Kafferep”. “Velcome to my Vintersaga” I said about 23 times while there, I was the ultimate embarrassing Mom that they hate to find amusing but do. Then I busted out the Swedish Chef theme song on the way home for my grand finale. I have patched together my particular brand of motherhood using bits and pieces from Maria Von Trapp, the mom from Almost Famous, O-Ren Ishii from Kill Bill, Bette Midler, Kate McKinnon, the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and a sprinkle of Donald Trump just to keep things interesting. Just ask my kids, they wouldn’t disagree.

Evergreen & Grey is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

As the holidays approach, I find myself repeating the words “Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus.” Having three kids ages 15, 13, and 10, I know that the magic is dwindling. I feverishly try to salvage it through any means necessary, including Sunday morning trips to Ikea because Isaac equates Ikea and Christmas and absolutely adores their tins of ever so thin gingerbread cookies and the general Swedish festiveness that the store brings. He quietly whispered “Polar Express” as we drove by Jordan’s Furniture and I told him “Don’t worry, Isaac, there is time still. Maybe next weekend with Daddy?” He wants to go on the 4D ride and relive one of his best childhood memories and one of J.D.’s worst—he needed to be taken off the “ride” because he was freaking out. All 5’7 of Isaac topped with shaggy hair is child, he wants to return to that comfortable past that felt so safe and warm. Life is different now, he knows that. Whatever happened to the perfection of yesteryear? Was that, too, all a sham? No, Isaac, it wasn’t. Still, there is hope.

The world feels a little dark these days. This family watches the world news nightly and no amount of David Muir’s “America Strong” moments can wipe out what we see and read about daily. This war, that war we’ve all forgotten about, that second mass shooting this week, and the kid getting sentenced to life in prison because people have preferred to allow him his right to bear arms than to both quickly and cheaply access psych care. So very bleak, where does joy, laughter, and magic fit into that equation? The answer is, it doesn’t and never will. But, as determined as the first crocuses that come up as soon as the frost has subsided, humans find ways to thrive in the direst of circumstances and sneak all the good stuff in as awkwardly as it may land.

Before I sat down to write this piece, I brought down a box of winter clothes from the attic for Mom. Mom had wanted festive wear for her monthly dinner party with her very dear work friends who have had this tradition going on since the 90s.In addition to finding Mom’s Christmas vest with little red cardinals on it, we also found Dad’s buffalo plaid shirt and Red Sox Christmas sweater. I felt that familiar twinge of grief. I remember sliding that sweater onto Dad last year, it just barely made it over his belly that he never did lose. I got Mom to the dinner, albeit late, after I made her take her regular and rescue inhaler. She had a lot of trouble with the stairs there but she insisted on forging onward full steam. “You know, you’re a pain in the ass.” I told her as she refused my advice that she should slow down. “Well, you know, you are too.” she said without missing a beat. “Is she allowed to have a little wine?” Mrs. Getchell asked. “She’s more than allowed, she’s entitled.” I told her.

When I got back home and concentrated on birthing this edition, I sent a text to my boys with a PDF of the 1897 newspaper letter written by Francis B. Church in response to 8-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon whose Papa had told her that if things are in the newspaper, it must be true. She clearly was desperate to hold on to her waning childhood, knowing that the magic she had once felt seemed to be slipping through her fingers. I know where my kids stand these days, puberty has found all of them; they see my adult exhaustion and probably surmise that that is their fate too. Yes, it is true, I am tired most days and have battled my own demons as the world continuously battles its own. I sometimes feel incapable of doing that one extra thing, of being kind, gentle, loving, and (most importantly) funny. I had a dream the other night that I held within me some kind of power that, if I just concentrated hard enough in a hospital in Gaza City, I could bring about peace that would ripple throughout. I remember transporting there in the dream and trying to concentrate. Then I woke up, sorely disappointed that I possessed no such power nor does anyone else. Then, two days later and after a busy weekend, I pulled myself together at 9:30 AM on my day off and made Ikea happen because it means just so much to all the ones for whom I concentrate my love. So, yes, my dear children, there IS a Santa Claus. He is as real as you and I, as palpable as the love and laughter we share stumbling through the Ikea spiral while donning our best Swedish accents, and as specific as holding your elderly Mom’s hand while she awkwardly climbs stone steps in order to make it to her beloved friend’s dinner. If that kind of determination does not convince you of magic, I know not what will.

“He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy…You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart.  Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond.  Is it all real?  Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.” —Francis B. Church, 1897

Evergreen & Grey is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.