“Yeah! I open dem!”
“That’s right. How many presents will you open?”
“Ummm, tree!”
“Three? How about ten?”
“Yeah, ten!”
Iris is electrified. She jumps out of my lap, and the whirlwind of our morning routine begins. I soundcheck and put in her hearing aids, she demands milk, we migrate downstairs, she eats grapes—lots of grapes—and watches episodes of Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, Angelina Ballerina, and Barney. Mike heads downstairs around 8:00 a.m. in his colorful Peruvian robe; I purchased one for each of us on our second anniversary, the cotton year. They’re from the Hotel Havana where we stayed in San Antonio during our road trip through West Texas last December.
We take turns getting dressed. Between Iris having a meltdown when I leave the room to take a shower and Mike locking himself in his office to handwrite his eight-page letter from Santa, we are running a solid hour behind. Mom texts me several times that morning about bagels and lox, eggs and biscuits, and a list of grocery stores that would be open on Christmas Day. It’s the most Jewish correspondence a person could ever have on Christmas morning.
We finally arrive at their house a little after 10:00 a.m. As we pull up to the building, Iris starts clapping and screaming, “Momobapa!” She often combines their names into one name. We get out of the car, and Iris runs to the elevators to press the Up button. We ride up seventeen floors. She jumps up and down. She always loves to jump up and down in a moving elevator. When the doors open, she and the dog chase each other down the long hallway to their door. Dad opens it with an enthusiasm strictly reserved for Iris. I catch a glimpse into the living room, littered with presents. More presents than any almost-two-year-old would ever need or deserve. But this isn’t really for her. It’s for them. They need this the most.
She doesn’t know where to start. She bangs on a big box and starts tearing the paper off it in tiny pieces. She lights up when a remote-controlled Olaf appears. She is excited to hear him say, “Hi! I’m Olaf, and I like warm hugs” when she presses the little button on his hand. A noise-making toy is such a dick move. He holds her attention for about twenty-five seconds until she moves on to the next shiny object, rips the paper off, throws it all over the room, plays with the thing inside for several seconds, gets distracted by the next shiny object, etc. She’s having a ball.
But the focal point of Christmas Day has never been the presents. It’s always been the annual letter from “Santa.” Sometimes I would read it; sometimes you would. But Dad was always the one to watch. He wore the most content and satisfied look on his face as they were read. Dad never excelled at expressing his emotions, but this was his way. This was how he told us how proud he was of us, how much joy we brought him, how much he loved us.
All the letters now sit in an orange file folder labeled Santa Letters in a file cabinet in my guest-bedroom closet. Collectively, they read like a Wittels family history. The oldest letter dates back to 1985, when I was four and you were one. Up until 1999, they were all composed in Dad’s illegible chicken scratch. Post-2000, Santa got a PC and started typing the letters.
Dad’s notes to you feel especially poignant in hindsight. Reading through them now feels like an exercise in Greek tragedy. I want to cry out to the protagonist, “Hey! You’re doomed! Pay attention! Take another path!” But that’s the thing about Greek tragedy: the hero’s downfall is inevitable. That’s why it’s so tragic. The audience feels pathos because they know what’s coming but can’t do anything to stop it.
Here are some of my favorite excerpts from Santa’s notes to you:
2000
When you were small, your parents could protect you from most trouble and problems. As you get older, your parents cannot protect you from many troubles and problems. Santa has confident that your mother’s teachings will help you to make the right decisions when things don’t go your way.
Thank you for the milk and cookies. Santa is a hungry dude.
Love
The Clauses
2007
HARRIS—A REGULAR DYNAMO IN LA. HARRIS, TOO MUCH WORRY IS NOT GOOD FOR A COMEDIAN OR ANYONE ELSE, TAKES A LOT OF TIME AND WORK TO LEARN AN ACT. CHIMNEY SLIDING WAS HARD FOR SANTA TO LEARN. LAST HARD THING I REMEMBER. HAVE FUN AND PLEASE TELL YUR FATHER ALL ABOUT THE FUN. THE OLD GUY NEEDS A THRILL. HAVE FUN, ENJOY, LAUGH, LOVE, AND USE PROTECTION.
2009
Harris, thank goodness you got your dada’s hair and body. U never looked better. Truly LA and getting famous. U do know how to live. The number of people u know and things u have accomplished are incredible. Santa has not met his next door neighbors and has trouble accomplishing a BM.
But prepare for leaner days. The only thing that never goes down is old mrs claus. But that is for a different letter.
2010
Harris—if you work hard, your mother worries that you are too tired and that you will burn out. If you are not working hard, your mother worries that your career is over. Either way she gets to worry and she does enjoy a good worry. Your father worries that he will not get to see pictures of your dates.
It is good to take time to relax, recharge batteries. It is not only what you do, but the kind of person you are. Do not work so hard that you lose yourself, because yourself is terrific and to lose it would be a real lose. Besides there is no sense working for the money, the new communist governor of California will take all your money. Remember
