The kids and I were debating the merits of various Christmas songs as we drove home from school. Most school trips this time of year feature the local easy listening station, which plays Christmas music 24/7. Normally, I steer clear of that part of the dial, but I make an exception for these twinkly times.
They have developed strong likes and dislikes regarding the songs. For example, Aidan strongly prefers Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song above all other renditions. She’s in good company. Nothing tops the sweeping warmth of the opening bars. It’s the soundtrack playing in my head when I carry this season across the threshold. She and I are on the same page.
When the subject turned to the worst Christmas songs, I pounced on em>Christmas Shoes. I clamped my jaws around Christmas Shoes’ neck and shook, and not in the playful way like a Golden Retriever with a squeaky toy. Think mongoose and cobra or me and an Anthropologie clearance table.
Give me the ridiculous theatrics of The Little Drummer Boy! Give me a sniff of oxygen from a tank as I slog through the 12 Days of Christmas. I’ll fake liking those songs, but I would never like or appreciate Christmas Shoes, I ranted without apology.
It’s easy to shred Christmas Shoes. First, the music is boring. The vocals are like an AM radio beer commercial from the 80s, played during a Broncos game. You could ferment hops and barley with the soaring schmalz. Who needs Rocky Mountain spring water when you have the tears of bitter regret? Some old-timers say they spring from the same hole in the ground.
Second, what is a little kid doing out on his own at a store without a parent, while his mom is dying? I’m sure, if mama knew, her life would be shortened out of sheer worry. Stay put, kid. She doesn’t want to picture you at the thrift store next to the interstate overpass.
Third—Horrendously bad theology! Jesus does not care what anyone is wearing when he or she dies. He’s not about to bar mama’s entrance into heaven because she doesn’t have nice shoes. Or any shoes at all. He’s more concerned about the contents of the heart than how stylishly toes are encased in genuine leather uppers.
Lastly: If anyone ever bought shoes for me while I was on my deathbed, I’d think it was a waste of time and resources. Practical to the end. They’ll just be burned up in my Viking funeral.
Aidan and Ryley’s faces fell.
Ryley said that song always made him cry.
Sir I wanna buy these shoes for my Momma please
It’s Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry Sir?
Daddy says there’s not much time
You see, she’s been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes will make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful
If Momma meets Jesus, tonight.
Aidan said it was the saddest song, ever, but she loved it.
He counted pennies for what seem like years
And cashier says son there’s not enough here
He searched his pockets franticly
And he turned and he looked at me
He said Momma made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir
What am I gonna do?
Some how I’ve got to buy her these Christmas shoes.
They listen to this same station as they fall asleep at night in their rooms. I’m sure they hear it at least once a night. It’s heavy in the rotation, along with the song about wanting Africa’s most lethal animal for Christmas and that charming song about a guy trying to get the girl to stay because her lips are like waves on a tropical shore. Foaming and smelling of fish?
I thought about them in their beds, little noggins cradled by Spongebob pillow cases with stuffed animals at their sides. As they listen to this saddest of sad, sad, sad Christmas songs, what do they think about?
Mama. Dying. On Christmas.
Size 9.
