With the flourish of a FedEx stylus, my Christmas is complete.
As I sat here in The Free Press, slightly nauseous on glue fumes from the installation of our new carpet and struggling over a column that was not coming together, my package arrived. I was a little confused when the FedEx man came directly to me. Was there no one else available amidst the chaos of the office to sign for a package?
“Oh! It’s for me!” I said, looking at it. “It’s never for me!”
Pam, my second mom, had sent me my annual Christmas pajamas.
It’s a tradition in her family that everyone gets pajamas for Christmas morning. The theory is, that’s the present they open on Christmas Eve. Then everyone puts them on so when pictures are taken Christmas morning, no one’s caught in last year’s ratty nightwear.
Even though I was never there for the Christmas morning unwrap extravaganza, Pam always included me in the tradition so that when I showed up for breakfast I’d be in new pajamas like everyone else.
It’s the closest thing to a Christmas tradition I’ve had in years, and when Pam started asking about whether she should send a package to the office or to my house, I had a feeling that’s what it would be. It’s nice to still be considered part of the family. The note on the card even said “from Mom and all the rest.”
When you’re single and your closest family is a 20-pound dog, Christmas morning can be difficult. And I’m not one to overdo on Christmas for Millie’s sake. She came from the animal shelter where I was in Georgia and hasn’t wanted for a thing since I plucked her out of that cage. Every day is a holiday for her.
Personally, I’ve spent a number of Christmases with a number of families and at a number of events over the years. One of the first Christmases I was in Georgia, I went to a Christmas morning service that included a live nativity. Indoors.
Wisely, they had lined the aisles with trash bags before the animals made their debut. It may have been the three wise men who had the biggest impact on baby Jesus more than 2000 years ago, but the camel was the star of this show. He spit once he got up to the altar, causing a trio of pre-teen girls to scream in the middle of the service. And lining the aisles with plastic did turn out to be a good idea as his … leavings needed to be cleaned up once the service was older.
That job fell to the daughter of a friend of mine.
“Remember, it’s all for Jesus,” the youth pastor told her.
My friend Sherri, a pastor’s wife, has a story that tops camel incontinence. One year, somehow, the baby Jesus fell into a fire and traumatized a number of children present. Jesus himself was a plastic doll so no actual child of God was harmed in the incident. I’m guessing the Christ child remained a doll for services thenceforth.
Even as a child myself, I participated in the annual manger scene Christmas program, playing the part of a pig.
Having become slightly more educated on the Bible in recent times, I now wonder if there would have been a pig at the birth of Jesus, Him being Jewish and all. It remains one of my burning religious questions.
Anyway, I was already cut out for the role, being the owner of a bright pink sweatsuit and an actual pair of plastic pink ears (including sequins) from a Pink Panther dance number I’d recently participated in. And my pig snort echoed through the sanctuary as the animals were led into place.
I’m sure my family was proud.
There won’t be any pig ears or camels or burning baby Jesuses this year, but I’ll have on my traditional Christmas jammies.
That will be enough.
Jennifer Shrader is the managing editor of The Free Press; her column appears in this space every Friday. You can reach her at 252-559-1079 or at Jennifer.Shrader@Kinston.com. Follow her on Twitter at jenjshrader.