Christmas Eve, 2010. Firelight and candlelight. The tree by the fireplace spilling over with presents, its warm glow pushing back the early darkness of December. Christmas concoctions spread across the dining room table. The house brimming with the bubbling chatter of grandchildren. How can they possibly wait another minute to dig into those surprises?
The youngest one, just 3 years old, quizzes me over and over about the creche. She stands transfixed by the stylized figures, especially the tiny Christchild in the manger. Whatever is running through that busy little brain of hers, behind those huge blue eyes? I would love to know.
Then. on my next pass through the living room, she is gone. And so is baby Jesus. So I catch up with her in the kitchen. “Honey, do you know where baby Jesus is? He’s not in his manger anymore.”
A blank look meets my gaze. Silence.
The party goes on. A tornado of gift opening, wrapping paper and thank you’s flying everywhere. The living room gloriously out of control with the energy of ten grandchildren in one room. A surprise visit from “Santa”, our dear neighbor from across the street. Eyes grow wide with wonder. Baby Jesus is long forgotten, until a few days later when I am packing up the creche. He is nowhere to be found. I will have to look for a replacement for next year. For all I know, he is making his way down into the septic system by now. You never know with three year olds.
Then some six months later, on a hot summer day in July, I decide to clean out the toy closet. And there is baby Jesus, deep inside Mr. Potato Head. I still wonder just what that little three year old angel was thinking.