Last week Santa came through our neighborhood on a fire truck. There are not many things that are more exciting to little boys than firetrucks and Santa. We waited anxiously on the porch, boys in their jammies, for him to come within waving distance. A toot of the truck’s siren, a quick wave from Santa, and it was over. Short and sweet. That event certainly wasn’t the most exciting of the week, but it was definitely the most meaningful–at least for me.
I was in the baby’s room three years ago and holding 10-day-old Cade. (At that time there was only one baby – it’s hard to imagine there only being just one.) I heard the siren from Santa’s truck and took Cade to the window. “Look!” I said. “There’s Santa! He’s here!” And then I broke down into blubbering tears. It was probably the post-natal hormones, or the three hours of sleep I was getting per night, but I think that was the moment I realized I was a mom. I had a new little person to share traditions with, who would someday squeal with joy on Christmas morning. And considering how long I waited for a baby, I certainly felt like Cade was my own little Christmas miracle. This year I will be thankful for every shred of wrapping paper on my floor, and all of the cookie crumbs on my table.
So Merry Christmas to you, dear reader. Remember that you were once someone’s little miracle, too. Go give that someone a holiday squeeze.
Ho ho ho!