The further adventures of Randy and Clarice . . . . (Christmas in Stitches, Dec. 25, 2016)
Randy and Clarice sat nestled on the
couch, watching the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle. Outside, a
picturesque Christmas morning snow was falling – huge, fluffy,
marshmallow flakes that swirled crazily in the rosy light of dawn.
“This reminds me of last year,”
Randy said quietly, nuzzling his wife's hair. “Remember how we sat
in the car outside your folks' house on Christmas Day? Remember how
long it took you to get up the courage to go in? I thought I'd loose
at least one finger to frostbite.” He chuckled lightly and
squirmed. He enjoyed cuddling this way, his arm around Clarice, her
head on his shoulder, but they had been sitting that way for nearly
20 minutes, and lack of circulation was making his fingers numb in an
uncomfortably familiar way.
Clarice sighed and straightened,
attuned to her husband's discomfort. Besides, she was getting a crick
in her neck. “You had finally proposed, and I was afraid my crazy
family would scare you off.”
“I love you, and your crazy family,”
Randy said, kissing the tip of her nose. “You don't regret eloping
to Vegas, do you?”
“I'm not sure that qualified as
eloping, since both our families showed up to surprise us.”
“I learned my lesson. Never leave
unopened mail around where your brother can find it when he jimmies
the lock and invites himself in to our house for a beer while we're
gone. And always pay cash for airline tickets. Cuts down on the paper
trail.”
“Thank you for not abandoning me at
the altar with the Elvis impersonators after Aunt Ethel kidnapped the
minister. I'm fairly certain her ordination is legit.” Clarice
said.
“And thank you for bailing me out of
jail after that incident with my uncles at Treasure Island.”
“I'm sure they weren't the first
drunken tourist to battle the pirates.”
“No, but they were probably the first
to win,” Randy said.
“Besides, I was already at the
station waiting to pick up Gramma.”
Randy snickered. “Glad she got those
solicitation charges dropped.”
“Entrapment is more like it,”
Clarice grumbled. “Why else would they put a handsome bicycle cop
right outside a Chippendale's show? Who knew real cops wore
spandex uniforms?”
“Good thing she only put a dollar in
his shorts.”
“Yeah, he was just going to give her
a warning until she tried to make change.”
They went back to quietly contemplating
the Christmas tree, and the concentric arcs of gifts radiating out
from under it.
“Do you suppose any of those gifts
are for us?” Randy asked.
“Don't be silly. Your gift is
upstairs in bed,” Clarice said, looking up at him coyly.
“Delivered by Santa himself. Ho, ho,
ho!”
Clarice shook her head in amazement.
“I'll never forget the look on Santa's face when I went into labor.
Thank goodness his pants were water-repellent.”
“Thank goodness Santa was an off-duty
paramedic! Leave it to the Donner-Dasher progeny to make a grand
entrance. Or exit, as the case may be.”
“I'm going to guess there weren't a
lot of requests for baby dolls after that. It was nice of the mall to
give us the twins' first photo with Santa for free.”
“Speaking of Santa, did you hear any
noises on the roof last night?” Randy asked.
“No, I'm pretty sure all these
presents were delivered the old fashioned way – by the postman, the
UPS man, and the FedEx man,” Clarice said. “I read that
shipping services have been swamped since the older generation
downsized to smart cars.”
“True. I don't think a Barbie Dream
House would fit in Aunt Lucy's Fiat. But that's beside the point. I
could swear I heard reindeer earlier. That's why I was up so early.
Do you have any idea the kind of damage hooves could do to a steel
roof?”
“I thought you got up early to put
together those trikes,” Clarice laughed. “For heaven's sake, the
twins won't be able to use them until spring – two years from now.”
Randy shrugged and stood up. “Nothing
like a little motivation,” he said as he
picked his way carefully along a crooked path through the gifts
towards the kitchen. “Besides, they're our kids. I sure they're, ahem, gifted.”
“Your grandfather sure seems to think
so. He sent early admission forms to Harvard yesterday, via courier.”
“Do you suppose a Harvard acceptance
letter will get them short-listed at Peter Pan Preschool?” Randy
said as he poured two cups of coffee, adding a generous splash of
Baileys to his.
“Before you know it they'll be
walking, and talking, leaving for college . . . .” Clarice's voice
trailed off. Randy returned to find her sobbing quietly, tears
streaming down her face.
“That won't happen for a long, long
time, sweetheart.” Randy carefully arranged the two steaming mugs of
coffee on opposite sides of a gargantuan bow, on top of a Power
Wheels Jeep-sized box, which had replaced the coffee table. “There will be plenty of dirty
diapers, skinned knees, broken bones, doctor bills, orthodontist
bills, prom tickets, . . . .” Randy's voice trailed off.
Clarice wiped a tear from his cheek.
“That won't happen for a long, long time, sweetheart.”
Randy managed a weak smile. “At least not until they open all these
presents!”
“These presents are taking over! I'm
sure the dog's bed was in that corner yesterday. Now there's a . . .
does that look like a pogo stick to you? Have you even seen
the dog lately?”
“I shut Frosty in our room. He was
whimpering at the door to the babies' room – I checked and they
were sleeping – I didn't want him to wake them.”
“Did that box just meow?”
“You're imagining things. I'm glad
we're hosting Christmas here this year.” Clarice tucked her feet up
under her, carefully straightening a tower of noisy boxes – Legos
she guessed – at the edge of the couch. She didn't remember them
being there when she sat down. “This gives us a chance to start our
own Christmas traditions.”
“I love your optimism, but my mom has
been trying to weasel out of holiday hosting since my oldest brother
got a place of his own. Nothing says Christmas quite like 12 Donners
dining in a dorm room meant for one.”
“Well, we have plenty of room to host
everyone. Or we had plenty of room. Tell me there aren't more
boxes in the kitchen.”
“Not yet. Thank goodness our moms
organized a pot luck meal.”
“Iowa beef roast meets Minnesota
hot-dish with a side of Kosher.”
“And an un-healthy dollup of Paula
Deen, balanced out with vegan . . . vegi . . . ovo . . . . What did
your niece bring to the last supper, anyway?” Randy asked.
“I believe it was organic, non-GMO
tree bark and pine needles, eco-consciously harvested from the
ground. At least that's what it tasted like.”
“Happy Chris-Hanuk-Za-Stice. Did you
stock up on Tums?”
“And toilet paper.” Clarice sighed.
“How soon will the invasion start?”
Randy pointed to a timer perched on top
of a huge box which had replaced the television. Around the outside edge of the
timer was written “Doomsday Clock.”
“Two hours!” Clarice
shout-whispered. “It's still dark outside. I thought we told them
noon!”
“We did. But you know my mom is going
to want some extra grandchild time, so she'll be here an hour early.
And your mom wants extra grandchild time, and she knows
my mom will be an hour early, so your mom will be here two
hours early. And how long has that pile of gifts been in the doorway?
I swear it wasn't there when I got coffee.”
“Honey, it's not like the presents
are breeding. At least, I don't think they are.”
“You're right. I'm just nervous. What
were we thinking? Both families here at the same time? We'd better
enjoy this peace while we can. It will probably be the last quiet
Christmas morning we'll have for several years.”
Clarice sighed and snuggled closer to
Randy. “And I wouldn't have it any other way.”
As if to prove Randy's point, the baby
monitor crackled to life. A voice, quiet as a mouse, spoke: “Good
morning, Mother.”
Then another: “Good morning, Father.”
Clarice and Randy sat up straight and
looked at each other in surprise.
“Did you hear . . . . ?”
“Did they just . . . . ?”
“Merry Christmas, losers!” A much
louder, not at all mouse-like voice bellowed from the monitor. The
living room was flooded with lights shining in through the window,
and a recording of 'The Little Drummer Boy' began blaring. Randy and
Clarice's looks of amazement turned to horror as they realized only
one group of people could create an exterior illumination display of
this magnitude.
“The cousins!” they both groaned.
“They have a bucket truck! I told you
to fix the latch on the children's bedroom window!” Clarice shouted
over the music.
“But that means . . . .” Randy and
Clarice turned to see both their mothers joyously descending the
stairs, holding little Francine and Victor Donner-Dasher aloft.
Behind them followed a rowdy profusion of parents, grandparents,
aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins from both families.
“Look on the bright side,” Clarice
said to Randy. “This won't happen again for 324 days.”
“That soon?”
No comments:
Post a Comment