Cheryl’s Corners

In these last few days before Christmas, one can hardly imagine the flurry of activity taking place up at the North Pole. The elf assembly line is putting together toys at a frantic pace. Santa is exercising his reindeer, looking up addresses, repairing the sleigh, checking his list—once, twice, three times—and thinking that little Michael, in Cleveland, Ohio, would probably prefer a bicycle to a rocket launcher, no matter what he says.

Just across the frozen tundra from the workshop, Mrs. Claus is just as busy preparing for the holidays at home. After all, there are parties for elves that have be organized, gifts (of the non-toy variety) that must be purchased for all their employees and adult friends , house full of out-of-town guests who will all be arriving right around Christmas Day and the food to feed them, which, I don’t mind telling you, is both expensive and inconvenient (the nearest Costco is a long way from the North Pole). Mrs. Claus understands how busy her husband is this time of year, but it would be great if he would take five minutes to straighten the Christmas tree and fix the toilet in the guest bathroom. The real truth is: Mrs. Claus would like to spend Christmas somewhere warm, on a beach, with a Pina Colada in one hand and a book about seductive swashbucklers in the other. But whenever she brings this up, her family just gapes at her, horrified, as if she’d just slain the spirit of Christmas or asserted that there is no such thing as Santa Claus.

And for years she soldiered on in silence, wondering how it was that on the one day of the year when every child in the world loved her husband most of all, she couldn’t help feeling a little frustrated with him.

Finally, a few years ago, Mrs. Claus sat down with her husband a couple weeks before the holiday and announced that she wanted a say a few things in one of their rare moments alone.

“I appreciate how important this holiday is to you,” she said. “I understand thepart of it that you share with the rest of the world is critically important. Now more than ever.”

He nodded and she slid closer to him.

“But here’s the thing,” she continued. “Every year the holiday season seems to take more and more out of me. I work really hard for the months leading up to Christmas making sure all the gifts are bought and the food is prepared and the family can all get home and have a nice place to say. And I do it all with a smile, because I want to make the people I love happy. But just once I’d like to have a little time—just a few hours even—to spend with my husband. I want to relax and be romantic. I want a break from thinking about the how of the holidays so I can enjoy the why.”

Santa was surprised at the request, having spent many years not even considering that wife might not have enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the holiday season the way he did. And he considered that, despite all the letters and lists he’d received, his wife had never really asked for much of anything.

He swallowed and stroked his beard, thoughtfully. “You sure you don’t want a new toaster oven or a sweater or maybe some earrings.”

“I want some adult time,” she said. “I want to be with the man I love. I want to remember this holiday as being one full of romance. And if you and I can’t do it. What hope is there for everyone else?”

From that day forward, Santa and Mrs. Claus closed off their schedule for a few hours on the twenty-sixth. No one knew exactly where they went or what they did (although a few nosy elves reported seeing them snuggled up in front of the fire), but what was completely clear was that Mrs. Claus glowed until the New Year. And Santa, the next year and every year that followed, was a little more excited about getting home after delivering his presents.

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