First Snow

Every Christmas, Handsome and I go to the Nutcracker at the Opera House. It's tradition. Just plan on it. Assume it. Look forward to it. And enjoy it. I love the Nutcracker. It's sweet. It's beautiful, playful, innocent. It's Christmas personified.
This year the day came and Lil' Miss Wiggles Louise woke up a fever fired mucous machine. She was green and toasted and in need of constant lovin'. And I hate leaving a baby like that. Then Daddy suggested that the monkey and I have a Mommy Date. And that idea went over BIG. Suzy Q was on her best behavior all day. She napped and shared and buttered us up. We put on her prettiest cream lace dress, ringlets slipping from her "ballerina ponytail", red lady-bug rain boots adding her signature bit of snazz, off we went to catch the train for a night of fancy fun in the city.
We ate oranges on the train and counted down the stops. We held hands on the street and looked at the city, all dressed up in twinkle lights for us. We always play eye-spy when we're on our way, and this evening, Curly spotted a great big neon snowflake suspended in the alley. Huge and sparkly and twinkling "Merry Christmas" in the dark.
In the opera house, she was my little lady. She had quick little chats with the ushers, about her dress, and Santa, and mostly her ladybugs. We settled into our seats and played eye-spy. Fancy ladies bedecked with flowers in the white molding. Fringed red curtains so luxurious I always feel like we could dive right in and swim in there. A silver moon against the black backdrop.
The lights flickered. The show began. And I watched, with my girl on my lap, whispering questions and promising to be brave as the Nutcracker battled the mouse king and whisked Clara off to visit the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Pink ladies and snow flakes and children spinning brightly colored parasols. Flowers and sweet little sheep. We guided each other through story; she reminding me to be patient with the little black lamb: "he was just a little behind".
It was crowded in the lobby afterward. Everyone was smooshed. Hot. Crowded. And apparently stuck. I was afraid that discomfort would bring the night to an upsetting, though quite age-appropriate end. I was working to avoid it. I loved every moment of this night with my girl. It was special to me. And I did not want it marred by a tantrum. Then I saw our salvation in the elegant arch of the window above. Snow. Falling softly, in great jolly fluffs. I pointed and whispered and my girl cried out "SNOW!" in that voice that only children have. You know the one. Melting and infectious. Benevolent as the smell of bacon beckoning you out of bed on a icy winter morning. Then we were outside in the final grand finale. The streets were covered, white batting wrapped over every harsh corner. She made me play. And I did not fight her.

The holidays are full of glitter and decor. Music and events and traditions. I love those things, but they are only context. They only matter when I've got Christmas inside of me. And Christmas for me is like a fire lit within. Every year I wait for it to catch, like a camper working with tinder. I never know what exactly will light my spark, it's different every time. But this year, it was little Curly's voice, reaching up to greet that soft first snow. Merry Christmas.