Christmas Blitzkrieg

One particular Christmas, while we were visiting our grandparents in New York, it snowed. My brother and I were still little kids and we had heard songs about white Christmases, but we had yet to experience one. Since I was the only granddaughter at the time, Christmas was always a bit of a let down because my grandparents and aunts and uncles Santa insisted on giving me girly gifts. No matter how good I was all year, Santa never listened to me when I confessed my innermost Toys-R-Us desires. Instead of the cool Star Wars actions figures, I’d always get the bitch ones like Princess Leia, Yoda, C-3PO, and Walrus Man. And instead of getting the Millennium Falcon and an X-Wing Fighter, like my little brother, I got Lite Brite and a Holly Hobbie sleeping bag.

Someone forgot to tell Santa that the bulb was not included with Lite Brite and, even though I was an imaginative kid, Lite Brite without the Lite pretty much sucked. Having the Holly Hobbie sleeping bag mock me with the “Sweet Dreams Grow in a Happy Heart” platitude stitched on the front made me the most pissed off first-grader in the tri-state area. Sweet dreams may very well grow in a happy heart, but they certainly weren’t enough to make the Holly Hobbie sleeping bag grow because the sumbitch stopped at my armpits. So on this particular Christmas, snow was just the distraction I needed.

My grandparents house was packed with family and friends and most people were crowded around the bar in the basement. I waded through the crowd looking for my mother’s beacon light - a lit Marlboro. I found her and asked if it was okay to go outside and play in the snow. She gave me the “Yeah yeah. Just zip up your friggin coat and put cha hat on.” I got dressed right away and then started tapping my dad and my uncles on the arm and asking if they’d come play with me in the snow. One of my uncles gave me the, “Yeah yeah. In a minute. Start makin’ snowbawlls and I’ll be out in a sec.” So I went outside and started making little mounds of snowballs in preparation for battle and then waited. In my boredom, I trudged through the snow over to my grandparent’s plastic nativity scene, which reminded me of giant night lights. I brushed snow off of Mary, Joseph, the three wise men, and baby Jesus and then waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I finally heard the front door open and out came one of my uncles and my dad. I wasn’t sure they saw me so I asked where they were going.

“To get some milk.”

Now whenever my dad or my uncles went to the store to get milk or diapers, what it really meant was that they were going drive around and smoke a joint. “Getting milk” always took at least an hour and I can’t remember a time when anyone who went to “get milk” actually came home with any.

I was pissed off now. My mittens were soaked and I knew I wasn’t going to last another hour in the snow, but I didn’t want to go back into the house either and look at my Lite (Not So) Brite while my little brother had Han Solo and the Millennium Falcon. It was just me and the nativity scene out there in the front yard. Even the nativity scene was ignoring me, with their plastic eyes gazing down at the plastic baby Jesus. For a fleeting moment, I thought about sticking baby Jesus in my Holly Hobbie sleeping bag since he was the only thing that could fit into it. But then I was overcome with a rage brought on by my shattered Christmas hopes and dreams and I snapped.

I went over to my piles of snowballs and began bombarding the nativity scene with deliberate precision. I picked them off one by one and they all toppled with disappointing ease, except for Mary. Mary was kneeling over the plastic manger, so her center of gravity was much lower. I welcomed the challenge. I packed new snowballs with some slush from the driveway, got much closer to the nativity scene, and then let Mary have it. After several direct icy hits to the head, she reluctantly tipped over. There they were - Mary and Joseph on their backs staring sideways toward Heaven and the three wise men face down, ass up in the snow.

That left just me and the plastic baby Jesus.

I thought about taking Jesus out of the manger and sticking him straight up in the snow so I could blitzkrieg him too, but I didn’t. No one was paying attention to either one of us. I decided I’d leave him right where he was and walk away so he could be ignored too.

Not too long after the Blitzkrieg Christmas, I was preparing for the Sacrament of Penance. Being the oldest grandchild on my mom’s side meant that Catholic catechism milestones, like Baptism, First Communion, and Confirmation, were all a really big deal. In my catechism classes we were learning about the different kinds of sins people commit and which category they fall under. We had to confess our sins before receiving the Sacrament of First Communion, so we were encouraged to take inventory of our sins and get ready to confess.

Mortal Sin is:
1. a grave (or serious) matter;
2. committed with full knowledge, both of the sin and of the gravity of the offense;
3. committed with deliberate and complete consent.

Venial Sin is:
1. not a grave (or serious) matter;
2. not committed with full knowledge, or
3. not committed with both deliberate and complete consent.

I must admit that the first sin that came to mind was my Christmas Blitzkrieg. I was pretty sure that my snow assault on non-combatants met the criteria for a mortal sin. For a sin to be a mortal sin, it only had to meet one of the criteria. It was quite possible that leaving plastic baby Jesus all alone in the snow was much worse than bombing him with snowballs. When I realized I had in fact committed a mortal sin, I became afraid. I wasn’t so much afraid of God as I was letting my grandparents down by not receiving First Holy Communion.

I went to Confession, but I didn’t confess my mortal sin. Looking back, most of the lies I’ve told have been in a confessional booth because I was too scared to admit to my sins. And so the Catholic guilt/shame cycle goes. I made myself feel better about my own sins by recognizing all of the mortal sins Santa committed against me. He knowingly gave me an unlit Lite Brite and a too small Holly Hobbie sleeping bag, even after I had confessed to him my Star Wars dreams for Christmas. Santa proved to be a repeat offender mortal sinner over the years and the Easter Bunny wasn’t too far behind him.

We still never seemed to have any milk in the house, despite all of the trips to the store, and I never did get a Millennium Falcon or an X-Wing Fighter. I did make it through Confession and I did receive First Holy Communion. Hell, I even made it all the way through Confirmation. And this time every year, whenever I see a nativity scene, I pray for snow.