Another Christmas tradition is assembling the toys on Christmas Eve. Now, when I was a kid, my first suspicion that there might not be a Santa came when I got a brand new bicycle. I was all excited when I woke up and saw it sitting under the tree, a shiny orange 10-speed with only one speed. I don’t know how my dad found it, and I’ve never seen another one like it. It had the standard 10 speed frame, but no derailleur or gear shifts, or gears. It only had one gear, and by riding around on my friends bikes, I guessed it was about equivalent to 5th gear, which made uphill rough, but downhills just flew by. We opened the rest of our presents, and as soon as we got dressed, I went outside to ride my new bike. I rolled it out of the driveway, hopped on and rode out into the street. Everything went fine until I tried to turn. My foot slipped off of the pedal, and I fell forward.
Here’s something that has always puzzled me about bikes. A boy’s bike has a metal tube running from the front post to just underneath the seat. This bar reinforces the frame, adding rigidity to the bike. On a girls bike, this bar runs much lower, so they could get on and off while wearing a skirt without being immodest. The bike was slightly less rigid, but much more decorous. However, there was an important safety consideration the bicycle designer did not take into consideration when he designed the frame, and every man reading this knows exactly what I’m talking about. If your foot slips off of the pedals, you fall forward, leaving the comfort of your seat and proceeding through about a two inch drop, until the high bar arrests your fall by crushing your testicles. (I’d say nuts, but this is a family blog.) Incidentally, this is a good proof of the stupidity of men, since we continued to ride these bikes, refusing to ride a girl’s bike because that would make us look like sissies.
So, after I recovered, I got back on the bike, and began to ride again, a bit more cautiously this time. Sure enough, the next time I tried to turn, my foot slipped off of the pedal again.
Now, my mother didn’t raise a complete fool, so when I got back on the bike again ( OK, so she raised a partial fool) I paid close attention to my feet. I was going slow enough this time to realize that when I turned, the front tire was hitting my foot, knocking it off of the pedal. I rolled the bike back to the house, put down the kickstand, and gave her a good look.
That’s when I noticed that the front fork was on backwards. A ha! We have found the problem. I called my dad out (he was very happy to leave that warm house and come out into the frigid December morning) and showed him how Santa had messed up on my bike. Dad said he’d show me how to fix it, and walked over to the bike. I expected him to go to the garage for his tools, but instead, he clamped the wheel between his legs, and with a grunt of effort, twisted the handle bars all the way around, until the fork was facing forward. I thought that was just too cool. Tools were for weaklings! When my daughter asked me to fix her handlebars, I knew exactly what to do. I clamped the front wheel between my legs, grabbed the handlebars, and with a mighty tug, snapped the little retaining bolt that holds the handlebars on right off.
After I got her to stop crying, we went to WalMart for a new bike, which I assembled using the proper tools.
Anyway, finding my bike assembled wrong that morning was my first idea that all was not right with Santa, and something a little more sinister occurred on Christmas Eve. Of course, I eventually found out the truth, and began to look forward to surprising my kids with presents on Christmas morning.
Shows how much I knew.
I have another little Christmas tradition, one that I would rather avoid, but it seems destined to continue until I’m in my grave. On Christmas Eve, I invariably have some form of stomach flue. I suspect it is the same virus, as it always hits at the same time every year, around 7:30 PM, EST, and lasts until just after the last toy is assembled, usually around 3AM. It starts with a mildly upset stomach, and progresses through several full blown Vesuvian eruptions scattered randomly throughout the evening. I am happy to report that being a generous sort, I have shared this virus with my wife on several occasions. It’s just not Christmas unless you’re running for the bathroom every 15 minutes or so.
One Christmas, we were both too miserable to go upstairs to bed after getting everything ready, so we crashed downstairs, and waited for the kids to come down. It was actually kind of romantic. Most of the nausea had passed, and I had just enough strength to reach over from the couch to the papa san chair and hold her hand. Our oldest son, who was about 7 at the time, came creeping downstairs at about 5:30. He didn’t see us down there, and looked at everybody’s presents before going upstairs to wake up his brothers and sisters. They sat upstairs whispering until 6:30, when they were allowed to wake us up. We let them look for us upstairs for a few minutes then called them down, and the festivities began.
Having lived through several Christmas Eves I am amazed that my father did so well. At 3AM, tab A does not fit into slot B no matter how big of a hammer you use. And if I never see another sticker again, I’ll die happy. I think that if you spend $100 on GI Joe Superfortress with Twin Helicopters and Functioning Cannon (action figures sold separately), then by golly the dad gum stickers should already be put on the blasted thing. I’ve spent 45 minutes putting the toy together (which is kind of cool) and another hour and a half trying to get the stickers on just like it shows on the box (which is really uncool.) Bikes are nothing…try putting together a Little Tykes Play Kitchen with food, utensils, and silverware. Did you know that the seams in molded plastic can be sharp enough to slice right through several layers of skin? I do now!
Now the cool thing about assembling all the toys is you get to play with them first; it's in the Parents Rulebook. I looked it up. One Christmas, we got the kids Super Soaker Squirt guns. Let's just say that my wife and I thoroughly tested them out, and waterd the tree at the same time. On the other hand, when you play with your kids toys, you run the risk of breaking them, which can lead to severe emotional damage, and requires immediate replacement of the toy with a close substitute. A word of advice: At 11PM on Christmas Eve, the only store open is Mabel's All Night Truckstop and Pawn Shop. My daughter once got a fully detailed remote controlled model of an 18 wheeler with horn and reverse ($79.95 batteries not included.) She loved it much better than the etch a sketch($19.99) we broke.
The worst Christmas Eve disaster happened about 6 years ago. My youngest son wanted a hobby horse, and I looked all over the place to find the best one. I finally found one at Toys R Us that was perfect. It had real extruded nylon hair for the main, and a little speaker that made galloping sounds when the kid rode it. I got it, plus a little cowboy play set with guns, spurs chaps and stuff. I was really excited to see how he would like it. So here comes Christmas Eve, and I get all the boxes from their hiding places, and start putting stuff together. I save the horse for last, because it’s pretty easy to assemble, a few bolts, four springs and no bleedin’ stickers.
About 1:30AM, I get to the horse. I open the box, and dump out the contents. Onto the carpet falls one hobby horse. Period. No springs, no nuts, no bolts, no stand, no instructions, no FAIR! I was so mad, that I forgot to be sick. Here it was, 1:30 on Christmas morning, and the centerpiece of my youngest son’s Christmas was ruined. I was a failure as a father and a worthless human being. So I did the only thing I could; I propped the horse up in front of the tree and wrote a note to him from Santa. I explained that I went through some rough weather on the way down, and some parts must have fallen from the sleigh, but that I would come back in a day or two and fix it.
The cool thing was that my son couldn’t have cared less. He saw the horse, gave a loud yell, jumped on, grabbed the mane with one hand and the tail with the other and started galloping around the house. Yeah, the foot pegs knocked a few holes in the drywall, but I wasn’t going to complain. He was happy, and that was all that mattered. A few days later, I exchanged horses, and all was well, except that he sometimes took the horse off the stand so he could ride it around the house.
Now the kids are older, and Santa gets to sleep in on Christmas Eve. Now that I’m not assembling toys, my virus has subsided into a few rumblings and grumblings through the night, although that might have more to do with the eggnog than anything else. The kids still wake up early, especially the young ones, but the oldest doesn’t sneak down to spy anymore, since everything is wrapped, and they let dad sleep until 7:00:01. I hope that they remember their Christmas’s as fondly as I do, and find the same joys I did, playing Santa for their kids at 3AM on Christmas Eve.
Thank you for many smiles reading your story. What parent can't relate? And how many years was I told - "No more toys that require being put together!" (moms ignore this advice, of course)
Here's the good news - Grandchildren! More toys!