Santa’s Here

Santa just drove by our house.

I was changing my daughter’s diaper, and I happened to look out the window and there he was, in all his red and white glory, riding silently and slowly passed on an antique fire truck.

I stared, diaper in hand.

Being 34, a mother, a writer, a wife, a bald cancer patient, and a fierce Santa enthusiast, I immediately panicked. I couldn’t miss him. Should I run out and forget her diaper? I looked down at my little daughter. I thought that may be pushing it, so I threw on a diaper but left her shoeless and pant-less, scooped her up and ran out the front door screaming, “SANTA!”

When I was a child, Santa would ride by our house every Christmas Eve in a fire truck with the lights on and because we knew the fire chief, Santa would even stop at our house and walk up all those front steps to give us a candy cane. That magical moment when we heard him on the bullhorn, the engine roaring up Larchmont St., my sisters and I would dash from all sections of the house, screaming, “SANTA’S HERE!” We did that well into our twenties.

I could hear the purr of the antique fire truck at the corner. Neighborhood children and their parents were lining up.

I charged across my snow-capped lawn at full speed with my daughter under my arm like a football. Even though the fire truck was parked, I still felt the urge to scream his name again, in case he jumped on and sped away without seeing us. Huge tears welled in my eyes and I had a hard time stopping them, my feet in their own weird Olympics, hurtling down my street as if I were running to a long-lost lover across the train platform. For that moment I became the crazy lady, my cancer cap riding up over my ears, my unclothed daughter in the cold air, being so needy that I was blind to my own absurdity. I so badly wanted my child to have a normal Christmas. Maybe I wanted one, too. But I kept running until I got there to where a curious Santa stood.

I said, out of breath, my legs shaking from the sprint, “Thank you, Santa,” crying but pretending nobody saw, so oddly eternally grateful for the little candy cane he handed me.

Santa Here by the Ardsley front door - Copy

8 thoughts on “Santa’s Here

  1. I was missing your blogging presence. Tis the season to be drawn away from the computer I suppose. I am just back from a weekend off myself. I will keep you and your family in my prayers over the holidays. Xx

    Like

    • Thank you, my friend! I think life gets way too busy on the mainland… I often wish I could live in a place like yours. My dream is to live on Block Island one day and garden, and write, and bake, and volunteer. That’s my wish. Miss you, too! I am eager to see what you’ve written. xoxo

      Liked by 1 person

    • Hi again! I wanted to ask you if you celebrate Christmas and if so, what are you cooking for it? I’d love to hear your menu!! Wish I could drop by for a cup of tea, so consider this a virtual cup! Cookies included! 😉

      Like

  2. I remember the Santa coming around on the fire truck too. Such a simple tradition but one I always enjoy seeing still to this day. I was wondering where you were as well but as you say, it is indeed the time for being crazy busy, so I can certainly understand the feeling. I am about to complete a cycle of 24 (shorter) blogs in 24 days on Christmas Eve. One song, and one photo only per blog, and I am nearly wiped out, but it has been a lot of fun at the same time, and has given me more ideas for future blogs. I am definitely hanging up the Do Not Disturb sign for a few weeks lol. Merry Christmas!

    Like

    • Hi Robert! How was your vacation? I felt the lapse from my blog and blogger friends in my heart. I sometimes get on “work mode autopilot” which obliterates all creativity of course. But I was grocery shopping and called home and my husband said I missed Santa go by, which reminded me of this story. Writing gave me more stories, too. Do you write fulltime? That’s my goal.

      Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s