Sinterklaas: Safe Arrival

Sinterklaas made it last night, safe and sound. The evening was sweet -- we read the story, looked at pictures, ran upstairs to Grandma's house in order to sing Sinterklaas Kapoentje appropriately (a capella will not suffice for my little perfectionist offspring, apparently -- a piano is needed). We came downstairs, and each child put their bag of baby carrots in their wooden shoe. Aidan felt he needed to go the extra mile, just in case, and taped the wish lists on the wall next to the shoes. Just in case.

At 9:30 p.m., after the kids were surely dreaming of sugar plums (what is a sugar plum, anyway? Is it a fancy way of describing a prune?), I sat on the living room floor with scissors, tape, and scraps of Christmas wrapping paper, bundling up the little gifts to make the exchange for the carrots, now practically frozen out on the porch. I much preferred to be snuggled warm in my own bed at that hour, reading 'Tis, but my job as the S-Man's emissary took priority. I took my dog out for the last pee-call of the night, switched out the gifts and carrots, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

7:00 a.m.

Don said, "Aidan is up -- he's in the bathroom."

I went to look for him. "He's not there."

Huh ... that's strange. "He must have gone back to bed," Don suggested, with both of us knowing that would never happen.

Suddenly I heard screaming. Good screaming. Gleeful screaming. Aidan comes tearing into the living room, two little gifts in hand, all doors wide open, frigid morning air whooshing in his wake. "Look! Look! Look what was in my shoe!"

A flurry of activity. Flying scraps of paper. Happy squeals. First appeared a Hot Wheels race car, followed by a Hot Wheels monster truck. "Awesome! Awesome! Look!"

Aidan paused. "Hey -- Sinterklaas must have read my note. It said, 'Aidan wants Hot Wheels.' He read it. He knows English. That's great!"

While Grace unwrapped her gifts, courtesy of the Dollar Store -- a fabulously girly pink feather boa and a pack of rainbow color bracelets -- Aidan inspected his new toys a little more closely. In my tired, cold-ridden state the night before, wishing for a warm bed and a book rather than a stint wrapping presents, I made the decision to keep the price tags on. What does a 5-year-old boy know about price tags? I think in my haste I had forgotten my five-year-old boy knows how to read.

Aidan saw the price tags. "Look -- it says Kmart. I guess Sinterklaas likes to shop at Kmart."

Notes to self:
- Take off all price tags from now on.
- Reiterate that this is just a story. Sinterklaas doesn't shop at Kmart, nor does he tramp across rooftops on a carrot-binging horse. Sure, he was real once upon a time, as I read in our story. Apparently someone wasn't listening during that paragraph. We have gone to great lengths to teach our kids that Santa isn't real, that he's just a fun character in our culture, a jolly story to tell around this time of year. I guess we need to work a little harder at the Dutch version.

Aidan is still home sick, now crying because of the intense pain in his ear, his first real bout with a nasty ear infection. But with the gallon of various liquid drugs poured into his system, he's happy, playing on the floor with his new Monster Truck. The story of the S-Man made this sick day a little bit brighter. Thank you, Lord, for this day.