My Christmas Miracle

My wife, Dianne, and I sat shivering in Knishes and Dishes, wondering why the heat was off. Every new customer brought a blast of December air through the deli door. We put our coats back on and waited for my daughter, Jamie, and five-year-old granddaughter, Emma, to join us for dinner—the only ones who could make it just two days before Christmas. Emma had picked the place for its chocolate chip pancakes. She was my princess, and her wish was my command.

I was the Jewish-light dad. Thanksgiving was mine to enjoy with the kids. Christmas belonged to my Catholic Ex. In their younger days, the kids loved staying up for midnight mass. Now, it was just the seven-fish dinner at my Italian Ex-laws. I missed those.

Jamie entered the restaurant alone, slid into our booth, and apologized, "Right before we left home, Emma had a bellyache. Could have been all those sweets at her school party today. I hope it's not one of those bugs going around."

What a bummer. Sick at Christmas at her age? I couldn't imagine…or could I.

How could I have forgotten? It had been seventy-one years.

I was only four and, not knowing better, sneaked downstairs to see if Santa had come yet. The house was silent. I peeked around the staircase into the living room. No Santa. Wrapped presents crowded around the tree, and my stocking was hung with care. Wow! Santa had already been there. Better not touch the presents.

We left his snack on a coffee table next to the tree. He'd finished the milk, but one of the cookies remained with a bite missing. I finished it. He probably had to save room for his next stop.

I checked the fireplace for signs of his visit, but he must have cleaned up after himself. Then, the stockings caught my eye. I dragged the kitchen stool to the fireplace mantle, carried my stocking to the tree and began my feast under the blinking lights. I'd eat a goodie, shove the wrapper into the stocking, listen at the staircase for my parents, and then repeat. First were the Kisses. They were small enough not to be noticed. Then came the peanut butter cups. They were thin. The same went for peppermint patties. By the time I got to the long candy bars, it no longer mattered.

A half-hour later and fully revved; I returned my skinny stocking to its hook. I covered my tracks like a museum jewel thief and crept back to bed. Despite my buzz, I fell asleep until my gut revolted two hours later. The pain was unbearable. I called for my mom.

Mom and Dad came running, like I might be on fire.

Afraid to admit my candy rampage, I tearfully held my side with no explanation. Too distracted to diagnose my mom yelled something about appendicitis. They bundled me up and rushed to the ER.

After some tests, the doctor concluded I had a bad case of gas, gave me some meds, and kept me overnight for observation. I didn't understand the diagnosis but fell asleep, worried I might explode in my sleep.

I didn't sleep much anyway. The room freaked me out with its strange smells and loud moans coming from next door. The nurses coming in to check my temperature all night had me worried, too.

In the morning, my mom untangled herself from the visitor's chair. She put her hand on my forehead, her favorite medical move. A skinny Santa came by. I was relieved to hear that I was on his nice list. Still, the guy spooked me. He smelled like Dad's beer.

I slid beside my mom and asked, "Where is Dad?"

"He had to stop at home. He'll be back soon." I prayed he didn't check my stocking when she added, "He went to get your Christmas present." That was the big one. I got eight smaller ones for Chanukah. My stomach was a little better, but still ached.

The doctor stopped by and asked again what I had eaten the day before. Back then, doctors were demigods. I came clean. Case solved. I'd be released within the hour, and Mom was told the gas would eventually pass.

My father returned, kissed my forehead, and put a large, silver-wrapped box on my bed. I don't know why, but my forehead was a popular target.

Hoping it was a firetruck or racing car, I opened the gift fast before Mom could rat me out. She let me have my moment. I tore the paper off to reveal… a toolset? I didn't ask for it, but I was in no position to complain. I looked around my bedding for something to tighten or loosen. Didn't matter. I'd soon be home with a house full of stuff to take apart. Maybe the TV…

At home, surrounded by my parents, I lay in bed watching Christmas shows until, without warning, I passed the longest, loudest fart ever to exit a preschooler. Dad almost fell out of his chair, laughing. Mom lit a scented candle, and, miracle of miracles, it burned for eight days and nights.

Back in the deli, I shook my head, chuckling. Dianne asked what was so funny. I told the story over dinner, sparing no details.

Jamie added, "And that’s how he became allergic to tools. When I was growing up, he’d disappear into the garage. Mom would close the door to keep everyone safe. Then we’d hear the cursing and throwing of tools. We called that side of Dad Mad Monkey. I’d wait by the door with my brother and sister until he finally calmed down and it was safe to visit.”  

It's too bad there was no YouTube back then. Who knows what I might have accomplished. Ahh, I would have lost my patience with AOL and dial-up. I was a pull-my-finger kind of dad, so my story was no surprise.

Maybe it was the cold or maybe my tale, but my audience didn’t finish the food. My phone rang. Emma was feeling better. Jamie and Dianne heard me ask, “She what?” I gave them a thumbs up. “Another Christmas miracle.”

While we waited for the check, I admitted the candle part didn't happen. Still, as we got up to leave, the family at the next booth applauded.