IMR: Entries: 2001: December: 24 — Monday, December 24, 2001

Silent Night And just like that, it's Christmas Eve.   The Christmas program for the Rainbow Class. Big, proud parents on small plastic chairs. A tired Katie is stricken with stage fright. Santa makes an appearance with presents. A sunny Dec. 22 at Ala Moana beach. Katie's new 6-year-old friend, Stephanie. Teaching the important skill of splashing. Two things that will always go too fast: passing years, and growing kids. And both sadly happy truths become blindingly apparent during the holidays. Katie was still a baby for her first Christmas, not walking or talking and able to unwrap presents only with a great deal of prodding. She got the ripping-open-gifts thing down for her second Christmas, but she still had no grasp of the greater context: the presence of a blinking tree inside my mother's house was just an anomoly, and the lights all over town were just something new to admire. Last year, we were thrilled that she finally grokked the basics of the holiday: there's a tree and a (terrifying) guy in a red suit involved, you get presents, and you open them... with gusto. Most of all, for a couple of weeks before Dec. 25, she finally felt anticipation — that most compelling of Christmas sensations. Meanwhile, it seemed Katie was just finding her voice. She had a brilliant vocabulary, and spelled everything she saw, and could identify everything in the house. But apart from asking for this or refusing that, she wasn't conversing — just communicating like ... like a two year old. But this year. Oh, this year. She's no longer a baby, or even a toddler. She's a kid. A little person. A functioning proto-citizen of the household, and of the world. She talks up a storm. She asks questions, she tells stories and makes up songs, and she (attempts) to negotiate and manipulate her world with both words and actions. She's been absorbing every facet of Christmas since the first commercial trappings surfaced the week before Halloween. She knows who Santa Claus is, and his modus operandi — child observer status and customary form of transport included. She's learned, thanks to school, more than half a dozen Christmas songs, many of which come with oh-so-adorable pantomimes. And while she can't wait to open presents (literally — she tore into one a couple of days ago), she's also aware of the kind act of giving them. Some of the things Katie has said and done lately are so insanely precious that they have honestly made me cry. In the Christmas department, it has to be her rendition of "The Christmas Song" — particularly the "antler" gesture that goes with the line about reindeers knowing how to fly. And in the "growing up" department, it's a toss up between going willingly to sleep in her own bed in her own room (albeit with a veritable mob of stuffed animals) or pressing her face into Jen's growing belly and calling into her navel, "Hello baby!" 'Tis the season for disbelief, I guess. I can't believe tomorrow's Christmas, or that the new year is following close behind... or that Katie's fourth birthday will come very soon thereafter. And I can't believe that there'll be another soul in this family come next Christmas. Sometimes I can't believe this is my life. But I'm very, very thankful that it is. Last Friday brought the Christmas Party for Katie's class at her preschool. We helped Katie practice her Christmas songs (at least those she'd unveil to our great delight at home — Jingle Bells, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, and the aforementioned Mel Torme standard). We dutifully signed up when the pot-luck bulletin went out (only a handful of other parents did, however, in the class of maybe 20 kids). And we bought and wrapped a present to be presented at the evening's ho-ho-ho finale. We panicked, briefly, when Jen was scheduled to work until 6 p.m. that day (the party started at that time), but a generous coworker offered to switch schedules at the last minute, and while it meant that Jen would have to be at work at 6 a.m., it meant that she'd be done by three in the afternoon and thus able to attend. So, that morning, we were all up shortly after five. I packed up the food, the video camera (for Jen's parents), and my camera, while Jen groggily dressed herself and a barely-conscious Katie. Jen got to the mall on time, and Katie got to school before dawn. I was at work by 7 a.m. It just figured that my boss decided to let us go home early — I had to stay downtown, anyway, to meet up with mom after she finished work so we could go to the school together. The day went by fast, thankfully, and right at pau hana time, mom came over with a bucket of chicken in hand. We picked up Jen on the way to Kama`aina Kids, and while Jen and I were exhausted thanks to our early morning, we were glad both of us could be there for Katie's first special school event. Unfortunately, Katie was exhausted too. The minute she spotted us, she clung to Jen's legs and chanted, "I want to go home! I want to go home!" When the teachers led the kids out to get ready, she went very reluctantly. We could hear her whimpering all the way down the hall. Even though the pot-luck sign-up sheet was bare, by 6 p.m. it seemed every parent was there. And, they brought food — including more buckets of chicken. It was a good-sized crowd, in fact, and it seemed even larger considering it was crammed into a room built for people three feet tall. Everyone eventually took their seats — their very very small, short, plastic seats. No one was especially talkative, but I passed the time trying to spot the parents of the few classmates I knew by name. Finally, it was time for the program to begin. All the kids — in matching shirts and silver-tinsel leis — filed in and stood on a line taped on the carpet, just as they'd apparently rehearsed several times before. All of them, that is, except Katie, who made a beeline for me as soon as she saw me. Chuckling, I led her back to her spot. She stood there seemingly in protest, her fist shoved all the way into her mouth. Jen looked a bit mortified, but I just found it cute in a sad way — our plan to share in her special evening had backfired, the early morning causing her to run out of gas just as things were getting started. When the songs started, Katie was among the silent, save for the sporadic whine solo. When she hit a crescendo, one of the teachers picked her up and held her in his lap, and ultimately brought her to Jen at the back of the room as other parents smiled in empathy. Katie was in good company, at least. There were several other kids frozen with stage fright, or distracted to the point of just chatting with each other, and a couple were fighting over a construction-paper guitar. Fortunately, there were more than a few hams to carry the show, and the sang and danced and charmed the room. At the end of the last number, a couple of the girls even did the splits, and many had bowing down pat. After a brief but hilarious miscue, Santa made his apperance, and sat down to pass out gifts. It was too cute the way the kids were enthralled by his presence, many calling out to introduce themselves for fear of not being recognized. He then proceeded to pass out presents to each child, as parents sighed and snapped photos. I had to go up to claim Katie's, but as soon as she got it, she was all smiles. As the gifts disappeared, the school staff would ocassionally dart across the room to place one in Santa's hands. These were, I knew, the presents for the kids whose parents didn't bring their own in — perhaps they didn't get the memo. Eventually Santa was giving gifts to the school staff, everyone assuming all kids were accounted for, but I had spotted early on one wide-eyed but giftless boy in the middle of the pack named Darrian who still hadn't gotten one. Everyone clapped, and the teachers told the kids to thank Santa, which they all did — including a confused Darrian. But just as Santa was about to leave, and just as I was about to try to stop him, a teacher was suddenly there, with a whisper and one last gift. "One more present here for Darrian," Santa boomed, and the boy leapt to his feet, ran up, and accepted his little present with a giant hug. Everyone went "aww" and clapped, and frankly I probably would have cried, if I hadn't overheard the boy's understandably embarassed father assuage his guilt by muttering, "He's got too many presents at home as it is." Fortunately, no one else, especially Darrian, heard him, and the evening's magic prevailed. Everyone stayed for dinner, consisting of the quintissential local pot-luck fare — chow fun, chow mein, mochiko chicken, Kentucky Fried Chicken, oriental chicken salad, wun ton, sticky rice, and the like, plus an assortment of desserts. The kids opened their presents and ran around, while some — but not many — parents got to know each other. (I have to confess, we were among many families that just staked out a corner and kept to ourselves.) Soon enough, though, it was time to go home. And no one was more relieved than Katie. At least Katie liked the spectacle, even though she didn't want to be a part of it. So I still enjoyed myself, too. Especially since I knew it was only the first of countless pageants, plays, and performances in my future. Like the teachers said, "There's always May Day." Katie's visit to the dentist went about as well as could be expected. Surprisingly, she liked it a lot, even though the final diagnosis was nothing to smile about. Now, as background, Katie first saw a dentist last June, and at the time, a few small cavities were already developing. But, while I glossed over it at the time, that visit didn't go very well at all — the dentist was very rough, impatient, and generally unpleasant. That, coupled with the fact that we couldn't afford what he planned to charge at the time, meant we never went through with the work. I don't regret not returning to that dentist. But I do regret not following up on those cavities. Now there are more — eight, instead of three — and they're a bit worse. One is a lot worse, and will require the kid equivalent of a root canal. And given the pain she's been experiencing lately, and the pain that fixing things will invariably bring, it hardly seems right to also note that the bill for everything is about twelve times what it would have been last year. Jen was incredibly upset, and surely I wasn't cheering. We weren't about to hear from CPS, but I'm certainly not in the running for Father of the Year, either. But you know what? This new dentist — one Dr. Stephen Moriguchi, also picked for no better reason than the look of his office's ad in the Yellow Pages — was great. Wonderful, even. It made a world of difference to be talking with a dentist who clearly and earnestly loved kids, and who had a knack for dealing with them and their stressed-out, guilt-ridden parents. Even the members of his professional staff had the aura of happy elementary school teachers. He immediately engaged and entertained Katie, explaining every step and showing her each tool. And she was a complete darling, eagerly climbing into the chair, dutifully opening her mouth, and happily answering questions. The only part of the visit that Katie didn't like was the X-rays, but even though she resisted having those film things shoved in her mouth, the sweet but properly assertive nurse was able to get all but one of the shots she needed. Dr. Moriguchi, thankfully, also took time to reassure us. We did brush Katie's teeth daily, and this was evidenced by the fact that Katie basically had "the gums of a god." She had no infections, no huge plaque deposits, no wholly neglected areas of her mouth; her healthy teeth were quite healthy; and her fluoride prescription was probably helping. After all, the dentist said, he had several young kids of his own, so he knows first-hand that sometimes even the most vigorously brushed-and-flossed children will get cavities. We agreed that the fact that Katie habitually crunched ice since her first tooth might be a factor, he also explained that she just might have weak (and someday sensitive) teeth — due in no small part to the fact that she dislikes dairy in all forms besides ice cream, and has thus been long lacking in calcium. And as his finale, he also showed us his special portfolio of worst-case scenarios. Photos of kids whose mouths could've been re-cast as sets for an Alien movie. Compared to those black and bleeding scenes of genuine neglect, Katie's darling smile looked nothing short of perfect. Before we left, the dentist temporarily filled the one really bad tooth (with nary a whimper out of Katie), and we made the appointments (the work will, because of Katie's age and thus the limits on anesthetic use, take a series of two to four visits) for early January. Katie cheerfully waved goodbye to everyone, and said she couldn't wait to tell the kids at school about her exciting trip to the dentist. Ultimately, I was relieved. I was glad to know, for certain, what was wrong (unlike the first dentist, this one explained everything, right down to the marked-up tooth chart), and what it would take to fix it. And I was glad that Katie would be very happy to go back next month. Once, at least. One thing I forgot to mention: all this month I've been taking Wednesdays off. As has been the case since I started my job, every year I completely fail to take enough vacation. As our annual allotment now expires every Dec. 31, I have to take the time off or lose it completely. So for 2001, workaholic that I am, I had 60 hours to burn — about eight days. Since I didn't use them, as planned, the last week of November to finish my novel (ha!), I had to use them all this month. Thus, the Wednesdays thing. As Wednesdays are also one of Jen's weekly days off. It's been wonderful being able to spend time together, just the two of us (during the day, at least, when Katie's in school). Sure, we tried to be productive, shopping for last-minute presents and running errands, but we spent a lot of time just enjoying ourselves. There have been many, many delicious middle-of-the-day naps. And, each week, for the first time in what seems like ages, a first-run movie, too! "Monsters, Inc." (we took Katie to that one), "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," "Ocean's Eleven," and "Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring." We don't even know what we'll catch this week. We're even doing flicks at home, too, from "Fight Club" to "Moulin Rouge" to "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" I'm in such a movie mood, I just might write a review or two. Anyway, I've loved our weekly dates. It's all the Christmas present I need. Though I can't wait to see how Jen likes the presents she's got waiting under the tree... Especially as I've somehow managed to keep them secret, resisting a whole month of begging, pouting, and sultry looks. Speaking of being a workaholic, I'm going into the office tomorrow (er, today). Even though Christmas Eve — after much hemming and hawing — is offically a holiday. I think Doris might be similarly insane. We've just got too much stuff to do (our spouses will be at work, besides) — I've got to ship out some very delayed newsletters, and meet with a potential web development client on the side. So right now, I've got to sleep.

Comments Merry Christmas to you and your lovely family, Ryan. —Jaqi (December 25, 2001 5:13 PM) E kala mai! Comments have been disabled due to overwhelming abuse by spammers. Please click through to any of the video hosting services linked above to leave a public response, or feel free to send an e-mail. Mahalo! < December 18 · December · December 25 > © 1997-2008 Ryan Kawailani Ozawa · E-Mail: imr@lightfantastic.org · Created: 13 November 1997 · Last Modified: 14 January 2008