A Trapp Family Christmas

ONE OF the reasons—I say one of the reasons because I could think of several others if I put my mind to it—that I kept on having babies for years after all my classmates were taking turns being president of the Planned Parenthood Association was that I always thought a big family would be such fun at Christmas. Which who doesn’t, including people like me, who know? I know why Ben Heath, who is tied to me by the bonds of marriage, has the spirit of Christmas around Thanksgiving and the spirit of Ash Wednesday around Christmas. I keep telling him I know. “I know,” I say. “I know. I know. I know.”

I know we always get more glitter and glue on the floor than on the candles, and that I never remember to wipe it up until the dining-room carpet (new last January) is permanently (though not uninterestingly, I always think) spangled. I know I look absolutely insane crawling around in the snow for weeks before Christmas, putting candy canes on window sills and then galloping madly off in the dark, jingling sleighbells and shouting, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I know the newsboy would rather have two dollar bills than a $1.95 flashlight wrapped in green paper and silver ribbon with “MERVYN” spelled out in red Scotch tape. I know no one can eat those Cut’n’Bake cookies after the children have decorated them with green sugar and cinnamon hearts (Christmas trees), and then with more cinnamon hearts and melted marshmallow (Santa Clauses), and then with more melted marshmallow and pink crayon (angels). I know it’s un-Gesell and not even altogether Spock to match candid blue eye to candid blue eye with a ten-year-old and say: “But, sweetie, how should I know why Polly’s Santa Claus is really her father? Maybe her father has to be her Santa Claus, poor little thing! Maybe Santa Claus just doesn’t like Polly. Ever think of that?”

About the Author

Aloïse Buckley Heath

Aloïse Buckley Heath (1918–1967) was the sister of National Review’s founder, William F. Buckley Jr.

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ONE OF the reasons—I say one of the reasons because I could think of several others if I put my mind to it—that I kept on having babies for years after all my classmates were taking turns being president of the Planned Parenthood Association was that I always thought a big family would be such fun at Christmas. Which who doesn’t, including people like me, who know? I know why Ben Heath, who is tied to me by the bonds of marriage, has the spirit of Christmas around Thanksgiving and the spirit of Ash Wednesday around Christmas. I keep telling him I know. “I know,” I say. “I know. I know. I know.”

I know we always get more glitter and glue on the floor than on the candles, and that I never remember to wipe it up until the dining-room carpet (new last January) is permanently (though not uninterestingly, I always think) spangled. I know I look absolutely insane crawling around in the snow for weeks before Christmas, putting candy canes on window sills and then galloping madly off in the dark, jingling sleighbells and shouting, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” I know the newsboy would rather have two dollar bills than a $1.95 flashlight wrapped in green paper and silver ribbon with “MERVYN” spelled out in red Scotch tape. I know no one can eat those Cut’n’Bake cookies after the children have decorated them with green sugar and cinnamon hearts (Christmas trees), and then with more cinnamon hearts and melted marshmallow (Santa Clauses), and then with more melted marshmallow and pink crayon (angels). I know it’s un-Gesell and not even altogether Spock to match candid blue eye to candid blue eye with a ten-year-old and say: “But, sweetie, how should I know why Polly’s Santa Claus is really her father? Maybe her father has to be her Santa Claus, poor little thing! Maybe Santa Claus just doesn’t like Polly. Ever think of that?”