I’m spoiling her, I know.
The thing is that she wised up to the whole Santa Claus game pretty early, checked out on the ruse. I felt a little bad about that: not really, but enough that between being an only child and having two parents working full time, I wanted to inject a little bit of the magic back into the season. It’s tough enough that we gloss over the oodles of festivities that happen this time of year in lieu of fitting in the last minute extra-curricular chores, but to have to wake up to two nearly-indifferent parents as the big day creeps ever closer, and knowing that she is overflowing with untapped giddy energy over the whole thing…. I feel a bit bad.
So I’ve been doing this thing.
Last year I bought her a tiny tree. It’s pre-lit and about eighteen inches tall and just sturdy enough to hold some small decorations and — little drummer roll — tiny gifts.
I’ve been playing elf. For the second year in a row we’re celebrating twelve days of Christmas. Not THE twelve days of Christmas, either by legend or by verse, but rather A twelve days LEADING INTO Christmas wherein each night someone — *ahem* — leaves a small, wee, one-might-almost-call-it-a-stocking-stuffer, gift under the aforementioned tree. For twelve days. Twelve days leading into, the day before Christmas.
A LEGO mini-fig.
A comic book.
It’s the little things that don’t seem like much, y’know, that when she’s thirty she’ll look back and remember. Maybe it will be a new tradition. Maybe it will just be her thing. Definitely she knows it’s not a guy in a red suit. But perhaps there’s something a little bit like magic in it somewhere.