Eager Beaver

Chapter Fifty-Four - Christmas Morning

With no TV to watch and no tablet to play on, I soon grew bored of staring hopefully at the fireplace. I began to pace around the room, wondering how long it could possibly take Santa to get all the way around the world. I sat down cross legged on the floor again, supporting my head in my hands as I thought the problem over.

He'd have to go all the way out east first - to New Zealand and Japan - since it had already been Christmas there hours ago. Then he'd go all through Asia and Africa and Europe as well. Eventually he'd make it to Canada, but even then Welton and the rest of British Columbia would be dead last! The only people after us would be in the Pacific ocean, all the way in Hawaii!

I harrumphed, going over to the couch and digging out my chunky phone from between the couch cushions so I could see the time. How was it still only 10pm? I let out a frustrated groan, sinking back down onto the floor.

Looking for something to do, I stared enviously at the big pile of presents, and then down at the Land Before Time diary at my feet. I picked it up, thinking I could maybe write a story. I knew Mom kept a pen by her work computer, so I quickly jumped to my feet and scurried as silently and as quickly as I could to her office - immediately returning to the living room and launching myself onto the couch. I peeked up at my still empty stocking hanging from the mantle piece. Luckily, Santa hadn't been and gone in my short absence.

I uncapped the pen, tapping thoughtfully on the paper trying to work out what I should write about. I thought about writing something made up, or something about The Land Before Time, or something about California, but nothing I could think of felt special enough. All the really special stuff that had ever happened to me had happened in Canada. So I just started from the beginning. I wrote about my first day at Beavers, Alex's birthday, Camp; about starting school, Apple Day, the storm, and Halloween; I wrote about the Christmas Pageant, and Nate, and even what had happened with the diaper.

I grew more and more tired, each emotional sentence and word and letter seeming to drain every last drop of energy from me. The last thing I remember writing that night was about the Christmas grotto, and Dad checking my diaper while I was sitting on his knee.

***

I'm still not sure if what happened next was a dream or not. I'd definitely fallen asleep, because I remember being so drowsy that I could barely keep my eyes open. A rough and calloused yet gentle hand was stroking my hair, and I was cuddled up on someone's lap - curled up in a warm tight bundle like a cat. I tried to gather the strength to open my eyes, but I was so exhausted that I could only get them open half way. All I could process were hazy muddles of red, white, and green, and a blurry indistinct kind face looking down at me. I flopped up a limp tired hand and my fingers brushed into contact with some kind of unfamiliar strange scratchy material. It was like a burlap sack, or an old wool jumper, or a long white bristly beard.

"Santa?" I sighed tiredly, letting out an exhausted yawn before I was completely overwhelmed with tiredness again. My eyes fluttered fully closed, and I suddenly felt completely relaxed - like I was floating through the sky ensconced in a warm fluffy comforter.

When I woke up, I was sitting on Santa's lap. We were in his grotto - just like the one at school - though this one was for real: walls of ice instead of flimsy white sheets; bizarre spectral lights in red and green floating mysteriously around the cave instead of cheap fairy lights; and most importantly an innumerable hoard of elegantly wrapped presents piled up extending out in every direction. My excitement stirred me fully awake as I darted my head around to look the kindly old white-bearded man in the face.

"Santa!" I practically squealed, just as excited as Laurie had been at the fair. I stared up at him adoringly like a baby polar bear at its mother, studying his face. He looked a lot like my Dad, though of course he wasn't. He looked thirty, or forty, maybe infinitely older - and that scratchy long white beard was no fake. I'd felt it! I shifted on Santa's knee, trying to wriggle up closer.