Post by Dean on Dec 5, 2006 19:48:05 GMT -5
~Milk And Cookies~[/size]
I came home from work that night on December twenty-second and went straight to my then eight year old son’s bedroom. I quietly snuck into the room. It was the week of Christmas and a very busy and important week for retailers like me. It was after 11:30 p.m. when I arrived home. There laid my son, very groggy and half asleep. His blankets were tucked up under his chin and he sleepily looked up at me without truly responding to my presence at his side. I pulled the blankets back to look at the ten inch wide strip of gauze bandages that covered up much of his stomach. He had undergone surgery that day to repair a herniated navel that had begun to tear the muscle tissue in his stomach. It was a pre-existing condition. The poor little guy had been born with an 'outy' that stuck out two inches. He had complained of bellyaches a week earlier and we took him to his pediatrician. The pediatrician said that it was critical that we have this procedure completed as soon as his Christmas vacation began.
I examined the bandages and he looked up at me and said, “Daddy, why weren’t you there with me?”
I never stopped to think until just recently that he had probably thought I was at the bar instead of with him. It never occurred to me that he thought that daddy was drinking rather then with him as he endured this greatest traumatic experience of his childhood existence. He was used to me not coming home at night. He was used to not seeing me for a day or two because I often got home after he went to bed and I was often up and gone before he arose to begin his day. I never stopped to think that he didn’t know the difference. This time, the company I worked for refused to allow me time off. It was Christmas and Christmas meant money and profits. But, my son didn't know the difference. I didn't know what he was thinking that night until he told me later on after I got sober what thoughts were going through his head.
A few days past.
Every Christmas Eve for many years, and this year to be not unlike those preceding it, I came home after an unbelievable, excruciatingly busy day at the store. We had done more business in that one day then what was usually done in a month during the off-season times. As was the ‘tradition’ in my store, I treated the staff and mostly myself to shrimp thingytail, meat and relish trays, and several magnums of Asti Spimante. After stopping at the drive thru carryout for more wine and beer, I came home in a state of drunkenness, which was usual for me on Christmas Eve. At home in the kitchen, my wife was engrossed in her task of making Christmas cookies exactly as she had done for many years before. My youngest son was her usual helper but this year he sat on the sidelines still a bit uncomfortable from his surgery and he relished the task of stacking the cookies on the table to cool and taste each batch after it emerged from the oven to make certain that the Christmas treats were fit for the rest of the family to consume.
They greeted me with joy and apprehension. They knew that right now I was happy. They knew I was drunk. They knew that I had brought home more to drink. They knew that eventually that evening I would reach that point where I became that mean, horrible man that began finding fault and that I would eventually become obsessed with some obscure detail that would spark my annual tirade. I’d eventually start feeling sorry for myself because of the long, hard hours that I had to work to provide everyone with what they wanted at home. I would eventually start feeling sorry for myself for all the encounters I had endured with less then kind people throughout the entire Christmas season as well as the particularly unfriendly people who emerged on Christmas Eve from whatever domicile they normally cowered in throughout the remainder of the year. I was exhausted after a lengthy, grueling holiday season in retailing, I was full of self-pity and I was drunk. My family knew what happened eventually when dad was sad, selfish, tired and drunk.
So, they celebrated while they could.
For some reason, maybe it was out of compassion for my recuperating son, maybe it was a spark of the Spirit of Christmas inside of me; I did not reach that point of unreasonable insanity this particular year.
We continued to celebrate until it was time for our two boys to head to bed.
At the end of the evening, for the boys at least as Mrs. Claus and Santa still had a lot of work to do, my youngest son got ‘THEE PLATE’ down out of the cabinet where it was stored all year long waiting to be used on this one special evening. ‘Thee Plate’ is a clear glass plate with Kelly green Christmas trees decorated with multi colored ornaments circling around the edges. Each year the boys would gather a few of the fresh baked Christmas cookies and put them on the plate. They’d each take two or three turns rearranging the cookies until mom would step in smiling and say, “Enough, boys.” Then the boys would take down a crystal glass from the cabinet and fill it with milk. The libation and Yule snack was then placed next to the Christmas tree.
I would always make my pitch for leaving Santa Claus beer and pizza. My wife would frown very disgustingly at me and almost in unison the entire family would shout, “Dad! Santa doesn’t drink!”
We then scurried the boys off to bed so that our prolonged evening wasn’t to last until the crack of dawn. Invariably, one or both of the boys would rouse at some point in time prior to the moment when Santa and his wife began the magic of Christmas, and announce that they had forgotten to leave a cookie for Rudolph, too. Another cookie would be placed on the plate.
“Santa doesn’t drink!” That message would rattle around inside of my head and make me uneasy. I never thought about why I felt so uncomfortable hearing that phrase. To those two young boys, Santa Claus was a miracle. He was a kindly old man who never let the tinge of alcohol touch his lips. He was generous. He was unselfish. He was lovable. He gave gifts without asking for anything in return. He was a sober man. He was a good man.
At that time, I wasn’t.
A few years later, I had drunk my way out of that retail career. I had used the excuse of not being there for my son when he needed me the most, the stress of the job, the pressure of sales quotas and many more excuses to leave that position. Truth was, I couldn't function in the retail management environment any longer. I was always too drunk. For some reason, the jobs that I held the two following years led to no different results on Christmas Eve accept that in the following years, the celebration was not as calm or as joyous in our home.
Then, finally one year, my wife's and my son's greatest and most frequent Christmas wish came true. It began about four months earlier then Christmas Day when I finally had drunk all that I could drink. I finally had reached the point where I couldn’t live with the drinking and I couldn’t die fast enough by continuing the suicidal drinking that I was engaged in continuously. I admitted the powerlessness of my situation and the disheveled life that I was unable to manage. I asked for help.
Like the Grinch, my heart grew ten sizes. Like Scrooge, the love I had for those around me was rekindled. I got sober.
That Christmas Eve a few months after my departure from treatment, “THEE PLATE” came out of the cabinet. The cookies were arranged on the plate and the milk was poured. I offered no argument concerning the refreshments for Santa and Rudolph. My youngest son now eleven years old and fully aware of the magic that truly placed the presents under the tree but unable to give up the snack for Santa tradition quite yet, looked at me and said, “Dad, Santa doesn’t drink.” “You’re right,” I said with a smile.
And from that moment on, I knew that Santa was now a kind man. A good and loveable man who gave of himself to others without concern for what he might receive in return. I knew that Santa was a sober man and that alcohol should never touch his lips again. Santa was now a miracle. I knew that as long as I didn’t take that first drink again, that Santa would live at our house every day from then on. For the first time in the seventeen years that I had been Santa Claus, I ate those cookies and drank that milk and truly savored every crumb and every drop.
Written December, 1999
Revised December 9th, 2003
Dean H.[/size]
. I will be back looking for Lin and others.