Someone famously said that Christmas comes in four phases. First you believe in Santa, then you don’t, next you become Santa, and then you look like Santa. But enough about me.
That truism has relevance to much of Christmas. My dad likes to tell this story about my toddler years, circa 1960: “I had been drafted in the army and served in the JAG Corp. When it came time to be discharged, your mother and I had you, your sister Kathy and Tim, but no money. So your mom found out Spiegel’s had a charge account. We used it to order your presents. They arrived after dark on Christmas Eve. We were very happy to see that postman that year.”
And then I entered phase three. Parental paradise. Years when your son doesn’t flinch after you tell him you played starting quarterback in high school, setting various records, but had your aspiring NFL career sidelined when you suffered a vague shoulder injury. Or that you could dunk like Lebron before the doctor warned you might hurt the other players on the floor. He nods, extends you a high five, and then runs outside to play on swing set you paid someone to assemble.
During those years for us, the Christmas tree was the center of the holiday universe. In the late ’80s, we drove a Bud Brown purchased Dodge minivan, with side wood paneling made of plastic and had our radio stuck on KY102. Choosing our tree from the many southern Johnson County tree farms was a five-star, red-letter day. I remember the kids peeling out of the car in four different directions to make their choice. Forget made in America. This was made in our county.
Back then, the notion of a Christmas tree made of plastic was unthinkable. We were all about an old school, authentic Christmas. After several years, we graduated to buying our tree from the Boy Scouts on those corner lots along Mission Road. Then we turned to the Lowe’s on State Line, since now the tree purchase was a solitary undertaking for the one family member who was beginning to morph into phase four.
That was the time when the Christmas list went from crayons on Big Chief tablets to texting on Razr phones. From polite “I’ve tried to be nice” to “OMG ... I need a car!” These messages arrived about the time I woke up to size 38 pants, hair growing on my back, man boobs and low T. The only bags Santa couldn’t carry were the ones under my eyes.
Christmas became a living hell of college sons going here, there, staying out late and violating curfew. Naughty and nice was replaced with “who clogged the toilet?” and explanations to them about the purpose of those silver spring-loaded tubes adjacent to toilet.
It’s fair to say, however, that the real tree didn’t help its cause. Last year’s tree had weight and balance issues, which I had difficulty fixing while having my eyes poked with falling needles. “Move it this way ... no that way ... wait, my mom is calling ... ” It was also sucked down enough water to feed an army of camels. When it was draped with all the trappings it was closer to a tower in Pisa, Italy than a Martha Stewart magazine cover.
And then other priorities took their place, like sleep, regularity, and feeding Donner and Blitzen. That day was last Sunday. The faker arrived in a box from Target. Lori put it up and no one asked me to do anything, which was good because I was mixing MiraLAX.
Once assembled, Lori asked me, “Do you think the boys will notice we didn’t get a real tree this year?” A rhetorical question, let me assure you.
Matt Keenan’s new book, “Call Me Dad, Not Dude, the Sequel, is available on Amazon.com.