A Treasury of Christmas Stories by Editors of Adams Media Page B

keep him forever, Mommy. Forever.”
    My mother touched my face gently. There were tears in her eyes. At the time I didn’t understand why, because I felt good inside. Very, very good.
    Pat Gallant is a fourth-generation native New Yorker and mother of a son. Awarded a New Century Writer’s Award in 1999 and again in 2002, her writing has been published in Saturday Evening Post, Writer’s Digest, New Press Literary Quarterly, and several anthologies.

Simply Magic
    By Barbara L. David
    I T’S DARK . The black sky sparkles with the brilliant light of distant stars. It’s cold. And the laughter and chatter of excited anticipation make puffs of smoke with every joyful breath. Everyone is happy: Mom, Dad, and all five kids — ages eleven months to seven years. We’ve just come from Christmas Eve Mass and look forward to a delicious dinner.
    Okay, it’s really McDonald’s. But the drive-through isn’t too crowded and the servers actually get our order right. We sit down to our meal. Carols play softly. The Christmas tree glows. Fries by candlelight. The evening flies.
    It’s nearly bedtime.
    â€œMom, the cookies!” Our daughter’s voice conveys an urgency suggesting Santa’s imminent starvation should we fail to supply cookies.
    I open the Tupperware, and she carefully arranges cookies on a decorative paper plate. Her fastidious attention to the plate’s palette of color, shape, and flavor create a delicious opportunity for the baby. While our culinary artist considers how an additional chocolate chip or sugar sprinkle cookie will affect the composition of Santa’s snack, our sly baby makes his move. His tiny, chubby fingers cling to the table’s edge. Stealthily, he pulls himself up. In the twitch of a reindeer nose, the baby grabs a cookie, drops to his bottom, and crawls away with cheetah-like speed.
    â€œMom!” shrieks our little girl.
    I scoop up the baby as he gums his sugary catch. “Don’t worry. I’ll put him to bed.”
    I take him and his two-year-old brother up the stairs. Neither really protests; they’re tired after a busy day of play. As our daughter finishes her cookie masterpiece, our middle son, who has trouble with certain consonants, studies it critically.
    â€œWhat if Hanta gets hursty?” he asks.
    Our oldest considers the problem and then searches for pencil and paper. He touches the eraser to his lips, leans toward the paper, and with purposeful determination begins: Dear Santa , he prints carefully, forming each letter to his second-grade teacher’s exact specifications.
    â€œWhat are you writing?” his ever-curious sister asks.
    â€œShh! I have to concentrate.” He continues: The milk is in the — Panic strikes. “Dad, Dad. How do you spell ‘fridge’?”
    My husband pauses as he sweeps French fries. “ R-e — ”
    â€œHow can ‘fridge’ start with an r ?” our phonetically aware daughter interrupts. “ Fr idge. F - r - ig . F - r - ig . I think it’s an f .”
    â€œWell, it’s really called a refrigerator,” my husband says as he sweeps up a fry mixed mysteriously with pine needles.
    â€œRe-frig-er-a-tor. Re-frigerator,” repeats our little girl.
    Our son’s pencil hits the table with impatience. “How do you spell it?”
    â€œ R -,” says our girl, “ e -”
    â€œNo!” protests our insulted second-grader. “Dad!”
    â€œI was only trying to help,” pouts our wounded first-grader.
    My husband begins, “ R-e — got that?”
    â€œ F-r-i-d ” — he dumps the dustpan of fries — “ -g-e-r-a-t-o-r. ”
    â€œGot it.” Our writer thinks, then adds, Thank you for coming .
    Everyone present signs the note after the word Love . My husband forges the babies’ names.
    I come down the steps and announce bedtime. They’re willing tonight, even