I love Norman Rockwell paintings, especially around Christmas. They show us the idyllic Christmas that should be. There’s the Christmas tree standing perfectly straight with every ornament in place. There is a small table near an easy chair with a crumb-littered plate on top; leftovers from Santa’s cookie feast. All the presents are perfectly wrapped and arranged around the tree, ready to be opened by smiling children with perfectly groomed hair. Mother and father are smiling ear-to-ear having awakened, showered, dressed and prepared breakfast hours before the children woke up.
And so on Christmas Eve I envisioned a Norman Rockwell painting and what it would be like the next morning as all four of my kids came joyfully into the living room and gathered around the tree. They would smile as they opened each present and say “thank you for working so hard Daddy and making this Christmas possible. You are the greatest Daddy who ever lived.” I would smile back and say, “I know kids. Love you too.”
Of course, we stayed up a little too late wrapping presents on Christmas Eve and I am not really a morning person. So, as I rolled out of bed at 6:30AM on Christmas morning, all I really wanted to do was go back to sleep. But a cup of coffee perked me up and I went and took my place in my chair in front of the Christmas tree. Hazel (8) and Silas (3) sat by the tree and found their presents. They waited patiently for their older brothers to come downstairs like all good kids would in any Rockwell painting. So far, so good.
Then Camden (11) came barreling down the stairs, obviously very excited.
“Wait for me!” he shouted as he ran into the living room.
I sat a few feet from him and he stood directly in front of the tree between me and the other kids. He started scanning the bottom of the tree for his presents and then all of the sudden his eyes got very wide and a second later he put his hand up to his mouth as vomit came gushing out. To his credit he was able to keep most of the puke in his hands and on his pajamas as he ran to the bathroom in horror. Hazel immediately started crying and Silas just stared in disbelief. I’m sure my faced curled up as panic and disgust came over me and I yelled at my wife.
“Honey……………uh………………can you come in here? Camden threw up. Please. Um………….can you do something? I think some got on the rug.”
My wife sprang into action. Some vomit had fallen on the rug in front of the tree and she wisely threw the rug out of the way and inspected the area. Presents were OK, other kids were OK. Hazel was still crying, though, horrified that her brother was sick on Christmas morning and also from the shock of what she just witnessed. Silas and I just sat there staring. We had all been “Rockwelled.” That’s my term for what happens when some event or person or trip or thing that you have romanticized in your head turns out way worse that you anticipated.
Camden cleaned himself up and changed clothes and immediately began insisting that Christmas was not ruined and that he felt fine now that his stomach was emptied. He was even aggravated at Hazel for crying at all. There was a verbal scuffle that added to the tension but then things calmed down. Turns out he was OK and Christmas morning proceeded if not like we had all pictured it. But that’s OK.
Getting Rockwelled kinda keeps things exciting when you think about it.