Having a stand off with my 6 year old, outside the local food bank, wasn’t quite how I envisaged Christmas Eve. It had been brewing since before we left the house. He was having second thoughts about donating some of his toys, which were thrown in (by me) to make the box of food we had prepared look more joyous.
When I say “donated”, it was more a case of arm wrestling said child to the ground & when that failed (he eats his greens), good old fashioned emotional blackmail. “Think of all those children whose parents can’t afford to buy them toys this Christmas. Don’t you want them to have a soft toy to cuddle when they lie hungry & cold, as a direct result of savage government cuts, in bed? And, you’ve never even played with this one (holding up exhibit A)”. He thinks for a moment & replies, “Yes, I want them to have toys to cuddle but not mine & by the way I did play with that toy once when I was 5 & by the way, you said Santa brings presents to ALL children so it doesn’t matter if their parents can’t afford to buy them any does it?”. He’ll either grow up to be a prosecution lawyer or a serial killer.
In child development terms, he’s still at the id stage (world revolves around them) so guilt trips are futile. Realising this, I invoked straight forward blackmail (“Santa will be soooo disappointed with you if you don’t give those toys that you don’t play with anyway to less fortunate children”) to induce him into parting with the disputed toy & others, as well as a brand new designer outfit, bought by his guardian (& my, so called, best friend) on the basis that, “she only buys you boutique outfits to wind me up (she has never forgiven me for producing my library card when I was 5 & telling her it was “a licence to kill”).
It was a chance encounter with a complete stranger, days earlier that touched me so profoundly that I felt I had to raise my game this Christmas.
Being a one car family in a rural area where public transport is practically non existent, can be tricky. Having finished a hospital appointment early, I had a 3 hour wait for the next (& last) bus to take me the 45 minute journey home. Despite the torrential rain, I got to the bus stop 30 minutes early, just in case. When the bus arrived, on time, it sped right past leaving me standing there with my arm out & mouth open. Realising that was the last bus, I chased after it, waving my arms like a maniac, hoping I’d catch it up at the traffic lights. I didn’t. I arrived sodden & forlorn at the next bus stop & without thinking hailed the next bus down, even though I knew it wouldn’t get me home.
I jumped on &, still panting, blurted out that I’d just missed my last bus & asked the driver if this bus was by any chance taking the same route, at least part of the way, so that we could catch it up & I’d be able to get home in time to put the crib up for my little boy like I promised.
The crib was made by my father (complete with original straw on the roof) for us when we were children. It’s the only thing I wanted when he died, at Christmas time, a couple of years ago. It was our first Christmas to have the crib & I wanted to mark the occasion by passing on stories about my childhood Christmases, which centred around this crib, and my much adored father & son’s grandfather. I realised later just how emotional I felt about the prospects of missing this event & disappointing my son.
I don’t actually remember saying “help” but apparently it featured somewhere in my opening monologue to the captive, if reluctant, audience of passengers on the number 1 something, the destination of which I never did discover. Mike (as I came to know him), who was sitting behind the grumpy bus driver, for whom empathy did not feature in his job description (who can blame him, he probably gets paid sod all, works longer than his required hours for no extra pay & if he complains gets threatened with redundancy. Either that or he’s a gob shite) assured me later that the word “help” was uttered by me & that was his call to action (more on this in part 2). “Get on the bus”, he said, at once calmly and authoritatively, “I’ll get you home”. I looked at the stranger’s serene, knowing, advanced in years face, which indicated no compulsion to qualify his statement, & I complied. I had no idea who he was or where I was going but I somehow knew, he would get me home safely.
Log in on Friday for Part 2, where you can find out more about Mike, my encounter with Jesus & how the stand off with my 6 year old outside the food bank ended. It’s not that I’m gratuitously building an air of suspense to this story, I’ve just run out of time. Hasta Friday.
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