I try to be very Zen about Christmas, which I know is a complete contradiction, because there is nothing Zen about Christmas at all. What I mean is, it is what it is, we are where we are, let us be grateful that people do try to make the world pretty and behave with kindness, in general, in theory, at this time of year.

Never mind the ghosts of Christmases past, which would find me rockin’ around the Christmas tree with my relatives from the House of Atreus http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atreus. Or the ghosts of the present, which find me staring stupefied at gift certificates which cannot repair my piano, send me to a remote corner of the world just so I can say I’ve been there, or buy me more time.

I left my office Friday evening; my office is in Rockefeller Center, so I have to excuse-me my way each day through hoards of audience members queuing up for the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City. I am used to it; I slither through crowds like an eel; the little girls in their Christmas coats and tights and shiny shoes do not move me at all.

Except for last Friday night, when I encountered Miss Molly. She was perched on her tall father’s shoulders, rosy-cheeked, baby blonde, in a brass-buttoned navy blue coat and a wool stocking cap, imperiously pointing at some imagined destination, a coterie of women – mom, no doubt, some probable aunts, and two strollers containing mewing bundles of sibling or cousin. No matter. Miss Molly was QUEEN. She was at least the heroine of a children’s book – somewhere between the age of two and three, giggling and giggling at the beautiful lit-up world.

“Now, Molly, are you excited about seeing your friend Scott? Are you going to play nicely when you get there?”

Parents, I thought, nimbly stepping in front of the lot of them. They never know when to leave it alone, do they? Friend Scott? Play nicely? Molly was in the delicious now now now – there was no hold my hand, stand up straight, where’s your brother, hold this, don’t touch, wipe your nose, share …

Just then I almost tripped over another little girl, four or five years old, light brown hair in a black velvet bow, dressed in one of those red and black I-was-a-princess-in-Czarist-Russia coats favored by parents of a certain level of income and benevolent neglect. Her father said to her in a voice that was not at all doting but one of surprised, sincere but measured and provisional approval, “You look very pretty.”

For some reason, that hit me. I reared back at the sensation, held my face, gasped, felt a sneeze of unsummoned tears.

I fled across the street, to the nearest ATM. Must get tips for the super and the porter. Enough cash to buy groceries for the Christmas breakfast. And floral arrangements. And scented candles. And if I can find one easily, a CD of sacred songs because that’s what I seem to want to hear these days, not “Winter Wonderland” by the latest hipster but the St. Cecilia’s Boys’ Choir intoning “The Holly and the Ivy.” Ghost of Christmas presents, I suppose.

And here comes Miss Molly, again. I’m in line at an outdoor ATM and Molly and her entourage have just turned the corner, a corner which, as none of us at the long-lined ATM would have noticed, presents gushing fountains and light-bedecked trees. Pretty! So pretty! Molly pointed and emitted a joyful noise: “Eeeeeeeeeeeee!” “What are you screaming about?” her father asked, amiable, a bit embarrassed. “Look, there’s Daddy’s office. Look, Daddy works there. Why are you screaming?”

Well, because every tree she sees is a Christmas tree, she’s traveling so fast and so high without having to feel cold or tired and she’s the center of attention, everyone and everything is Molly Molly Molly and look look look. Because of the beauty of the world, from her perch.

Enjoy it, kid. It’s all downhill from here. I didn’t say it. But I thought it.

Labels: "The Holly and the Ivy", Christmas gifts, little girls at Christmas

posted by Elizabeth at 3:41 PM