A Chaotic Christmas With the Chipmunks
They are living a Christmas waltz, three heartbeats per measure, like something Coltrane would play.
“Watch this,” one of the kids says, spinning around the room in three-quarter time, dancing to the music in their heads.
“No, watch this,” another one says, spinning even faster.
“Just don’t break anything,” I say, licking another envelope, finishing another card.
*
Five days before Christmas, and suddenly we are living with Alvin and the Chipmunks, a squeaky band of holiday junkies who spin around the house and sing in strange harmonies, three octaves too high.
Alvin. Theodore. Simon. Me, I’m Dave. The boring one. The one who always wears loafers and yells at Alvin for screwing up.
“Merry Christmas, Dad,” one of the Chipmunks yells.
“Merry Christmas,” I answer, though I hate to encourage them.
And I go back to licking Christmas cards, the glue accumulating in my mouth with each new envelope. Hallmark glue. Oral cement. In five or 10 minutes, I lick my mouth completely shut.
Evidently, we now send Christmas cards to every living American and a few thousand dead ones--nothing fancy, just a card and a note to tell them we’re doing well and that we miss them all very much.
We send them to virtually everyone, to people we haven’t seen since college, to people who used to deliver the paper, to people we pass on the freeway. If you haven’t received yours, it’s on the way.
*
Added all up, it comes to about 240 million Christmas cards a year, signed, addressed and licked shut. I don’t mind, really. But after a couple of hours of envelope glue, I can no longer swallow.
“You OK, Dad?” one of the Chipmunks asks.
“I can’t swallow, that’s all,” I say.
“OK,” they say, then twirl away to dance the “Nutcracker.”
For Chipmunks, they do a nice job with the “Nutcracker.” It’s not the most elaborate presentation you’ve ever seen, but it’s action-packed and energetic.
In fact, when the Sugar Plum Fairy jumps off the arm of the couch and throws her shoe at her brother, the King of Mice, you’d swear you were watching a professional production.
“Dad, she hit me with her shoe!” her brother yells.
“It’s in the script,” I say.
“Yeah, it’s in the script,” says the little girl.
*
And that’s how our Christmas season has been going, me high on Hallmark glue, them dancing the “Nutcracker” and racing around the house, dinging up the woodwork and frightening the dog.
Experts say that this is how riots happen. A few frenzied individuals are able to incite a few more individuals, who in turn incite a few more.
Pretty soon, shoes are flying and people are screaming in Chipmunk voices. If you’ve ever seen a Christmas riot, it’s something you’ll never forget.
“Dad, are we Jewish?” asks the little girl.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Dad, we’re not Jewish,” says the boy.
“See, I told you,” I tell the little girl.
Which prompts my wife to review why we’re having Christmas, to go over the basics again just to bring everyone up to speed. We’ve only been celebrating Christmas for 2,000 years now, so it’s easy for people to become confused.
“Oh, yeah,” one of them says, “Now I remember.”
“I think I remember too,” another one says.
Thinking about the origins of Christmas makes them all reflective and a little spiritual--like TV preachers, able to choke up right on cue.
Occasionally, there will be silence as they remember what Christmas is all about. It’s bigger than the things they see on TV, bigger than the things they put on their Christmas lists.
After they’re done being reflective, they pile on my lap, to give me a few last-minute shopping tips, to make sure I remember how good they’ve been this year.
I feel like a guy who lost a fumble, stuck at the bottom of the pile, struggling for air, hoping somebody doesn’t crush my windpipe.
They squirm for position, wiggle to get a little closer to me and to whisper in my ear.
“Bike,” the boy says.
“Clothes,” says my lovely and patient older daughter.
“Ouch,” I say.
Because parenthood hurts a little, especially now during the holidays when kids are at their best and their worst. Greedy. Reflective. Thoughtful. Impatient. The full range of childhood emotions all happening at once.
“I love you, Dad,” one of them coos.
“Check his pockets,” says another.
“They’re empty,” says someone else.
*
And there we all sit, all of them on my lap, frisking me and singing Christmas songs to get me in the proper spirit. There’s nothing I can do. I’m trapped down here. I keep waiting for the referee’s whistle, something to signal that the holidays are over and that we can all get up now.
Instead, all I get are sharp little elbows. Chipmunk elbows. Someone could lose an eye.
“Dad, how long till Christmas?” the little girl asks.
“Five days,” I say.
“I can’t wait,” my older daughter says.
“Me either,” says the boy.
“Me either,” says the little girl.
“Ouch,” I say.
Merry Christmas.
Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.
