Peace and Goodwill, if Only for a Moment

Christmas came and went, and still there are all these children around, still waiting for great things to happen--for miracles and instant wealth and feasts fit for a kid.

“I think I’ll have a mashed potato sandwich,” the boy says, staring into a refrigerator full of leftover feasts.

“A what?” his mother asks.

“A mashed potato sandwich,” the boy says.

And the boy eats his mashed potato sandwich and puts the dirty dish in the sink the way boys always put dirty dishes in the sink, sort of sideways and with the napkin still on top.

“Look at the way he puts the dish in the sink,” his mother says when he walks away.

“How thoughtless,” I say.

“Don’t defend him,” she says.

“I’m not defending him,” I tell her. “Only a monster would leave a dish like that.”

“See, you’re defending him,” she says.

It is at that point I realize that we need to leave the house. We need to leave quickly. As if fleeing a gas leak.

Because for days we have been cooped up with Christmas, exchanging gifts and having fun and eating good food and drinking good drink. It can kind of wear on you.

“Where are you going?” my wife asks.

“To sun the children,” I say.

“To sun the children?”

“We’re going to Hawaii?” my older daughter says.

“No, we’re going to the park,” I say.

“We’re going to the park!” her little sister screams.

In the nick of time, we are going to the park, out into the soft December sunshine, leaving their mother a few moments to herself and a little time to recover from too much Christmas, which can be hard on a mom, even a marathon mom like her.

“What do you want for Christmas?” the kids asked her several weeks ago.

“A moment’s peace,” she said.

“No sweat,” they said.

But when she was done unwrapping her gifts, there was not a moment’s peace to be found. Just a long cleanup, then a big Christmas feast to prepare and no time for the long Christmas nap she really needed.

And when it was over, the children were all still here, wrestling in the closets or putting lipstick on the dog, while their mother nursed a Christmas hangover that comes not from a bottle, but from kids and husbands and too many sticky, starchy foods.

“They just need a little sun,” I say as the kids pack up the car.

“We just need a little sun, Mom,” says the little red-haired girl.

So they pile into the car with their new toys, gifts they got two days ago but somehow still remember, balls and bats and bicycles, and we head to the park.

At the park, we find dozens of dads out sunning their children. They, too, have left their wives behind for an hour of sunshine and marital restoration.

Everywhere you look, there are new footballs and new bikes and dads lying in the grass, sleeping like sea lions.

“Hey, Dad, wanna play a little catch?” a kid will say.

And a dad will roll over on his side and pretend to be asleep until the kid comes up right next to him and taps him with a foot.

“Hey Dad,” the kid will say.

And the dad will eventually get up from the ground, slowly so as not to rupture any major organs, and the dad will begin to play an easy game of catch, grabbing his throbbing shoulder as the soreness immediately creeps in.

Once in a while, a dad will attempt to run, which is always something to watch, a dad running, his pockets full of car keys and too much change, the objects in his pockets always going one direction, the dad in the other. They don’t run fast, but with a lumbering grace. If you saw them in slow motion, they would still be the same speed.

“Hey Dad,” a kid says. “See if you can catch this.”

Slowly, they will come to life, these dads and kids, the fresh air and the sun restoring some semblance of holiday health, making them strong for the lazy late-December days still ahead. For bowl games and video games and mashed potato sandwiches.

“Hey Dad,” the little girl says. “Can you help me ride my bike?”

“Do I have to run?” I ask.

“Probably,” she says.

I get up slowly, like a bear coming out of hibernation. In 20 minutes, I am standing almost upright, trying to figure out which little girl on a new pink bicycle is mine.

“Over here, Dad,” the little girl says, sitting on the bicycle, the same bike I put together a few nights earlier, with instructions from Chinese engineers, translated smoothly into Swahili, then pidgin English.

“Come on, Dad,” the little girl says.

As she starts to pedal, I grab the back of the bike seat. For a while, it steadies me.

“Don’t let go, Dad!” she yells, her handlebars quivering back and forth.

“Don’t what?” I yell as she veers away from me and lands softly in the long grass.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to catch my breath, coughing my father’s cough, the change in my pockets still going up and down.

“Dad, can we go home now?” the little girl asks as she picks up the bike.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I say.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.