30 Seconds

Aidan met Sinterklaas today. He has been dying to go, all week long reminding me, every hour on the hour, that today - Saturday -- would be the day, praying that he would get over his illness so he could see this legend in person. A local assisted living and nursing facility (where both of my grandparents, incidentally, resided until their deaths) hosts a visit from this Dutch figure each year, and since Aidan really got into the spirit of things this year with his klompen and very specific wish list, I thought this would be a fun treat for him.

The drive there took about 14 minutes, and I really wasn't sure what to expect. When I was a child, perhaps a little older than Aidan, I recall visiting our local Christian high school (at which I would later attend) for an evening with Sinterklaas. Excitement and anticipation hung heavy in the air, the auditorium echoed with delighted chatter. I remember the sounds coming first: horse's hoof beats (mic'd in, of course), the booming voice of Sinterklaas (which suddenly, surprisingly, sounded very much like Mr. Kuipers), Dutch words falling strange upon my young ears. Dutch songs were sung as Sinterklaas took his seat (or rather, throne) on the stage, and one by one we children were invited to come up for a moment on his lap, given a little toy by Zwarte Piet on our way back to our seats. These memories rushed back to me as we drove toward our destination.

I wasn't expecting a big performance, or a flashy display. But I also wasn't quite expecting an old man sitting on a couch. Lame.

I was really disappointed. I mean, really disappointed. We walked into the foyer and there on the couch sat an old man, dressed up like some ancient relic very reminiscent from our former diocese. We had to wait a few moments for the family ahead of us -- two whining little girls, "I don't wanna! I don't wanna!," two overly-zealous parents with their gigantic camera and telescopic zoom lens, capable of not only taking the perfect photo of their little girls but also providing a clear view of the S-man's nasal cavity; "Go sit by Santa! Tell Santa what you want for Christmas!" I kind of wondered why they were there in the first place, for clearly the whole idea of the Dutch tradition was missed. Santa is in the overly-decorated chaotic mall, folks, not in this silent assisted living facility.

Man, this is lame! I thought again to myself. You sit on the couch, tell him your name, snap a photo, and you're gone, a 30-second payoff for a 28-minute round trip car ride. I could be taking a nap right now. Lame.

But then I looked down at my boy. He was so happy. His face was beaming. His eyes were shining. When Aidan was an infant, and on into his toddler years, he did what we dubbed "The Belly Rub" -- a particular motion of rubbing his hands on his belly in such a state of excitement as if he just didn't know what else to do. When he did "The Belly Rub" we knew he was extremely happy. Today, I could have sworn I saw those hands in the area of his midriff, he was that happy.

My boy's shining eyes and wide dimpled smile immediately erased any annoyance I had felt, any grown-up feelings of mediocrity that I perceived to be before me. It wasn't about me at all. I wasn't there to see a man dressed up in lace and red velvet and a cotton-ball beard, wielding a crozier. It was all for a 5-year-old boy with shining eyes, giggling with excitement, arms clasped around my leg, hugging me with an overflowing joy. "It's him!" he whispered gleefully, ready to burst. "I get to sit by him!"

He ran over to the couch, now absent of whining girls and zealous parents. He plopped down and said loudly, "Hi! My name is Aidan!" Sinterklaas responded, "Well, hello!" and put his arm around my boy. An elderly lady (Mrs. S, perhaps?) took their picture with a Polaroid, a take-home keepsake, and I snapped a picture as well with my camera. Aidan, still beaming, was given a festive little bag full of candy. We said good-bye and left.

30 seconds.
A boy thrilled beyond belief.
It was well worth it.