The Hamster That Saved Christmas
December 18, 2022
T’was the night before Christmas and all through the night not a creature was stirring not even ... me.
It was such a simple request. My son Ryan wanted a hamster. I shuddered at the thought. I imagined the small pointy-snouted rodents that my childhood cat, Tracy, smuggled into our house when I was young; the captured victims that he would delight in pawing up to the highest point on the slanted dining room table leg and watch slide down. Over and over. Until the body lay limp from fright and exhaustion.
But Ryan wanted a hamster. And when your sweet 7-year-old gives you that dreamy-blue-eyed and long-lashed-mommy-can-I-please-have-a-hamster look that reminds you of the day he was born, what do you do?
When my husband a junior airline pilot at the time checked his December schedule the month before, he shared that he was flying Christmas Eve into Christmas Day. I thought of our children ages 3, 5, and 7, my heart sunk. Determined to make Christmas extra special, I purchased tickets to see “The Nutcracker” on Christmas Eve, with an extra ticket for my elderly father. I had lost my mother the previous year. We would pick up Grampy on the way to town and meet one of my sisters with her family in Boston, then gather with extended family afterwards.
My children and I planned ahead, gathering and making small gifts for the many family members. A gift for the big boy cousins was a homemade keychain with a rawhide tie and hand-drawn characters. For a couple of sisters, I created paperwhite planters for a cheery white bloom, and others either a jar of jam or a gingerbread man cookie cutter filled with Christmas-colored jellybeans…all wrapped with cellophane and ribbon. A couple of nieces received knitted snowflake hats, for one niece, a green and white reindeer sweater. That Christmas, I had finished knitting an XL Irish-knit cardigan for my father – though not without the help of a sweet woman at our local knit shop. I hadn’t quite thought through the logistics of wrapping each of the many albeit ‘small’ items, with special gift tags and string and managing a matinee arrival, dressed festively and food and gift laden.
In the midst of wrapping, I was thankful I had remembered Ryan’s gift. The little white hamster that my husband and I had picked out and purchased waited at the pet shop to be collected Christmas Eve by my next-door neighbor, Raymond, since we would be gone all day.
The warmth of my sister’s home was welcome. A fire in the wood stove beckoned like a magnetic force as we transitioned in from the biting cold. In the kitchen my sister was making my mother’s Ritz cracker hors d’oeuvres baked with cheddar cheese, chopped bacon, and green peppers to add to the dining room table spread with other familiar comfort food.
I ignored the chills spreading through my body that began in Boston. In the midst of the crowd, I was able to find a quiet place to sit and observe. My sister’s tree reflected her artistry, with an array that included hand-made wooden ornaments and colorful lights. Still cherished on our tree is the delicate skier ornament she gave me that Christmas, constructed intricately with a clothespin and felt clothing and a pompom hat on popsicle stick skis.
Once home, I fought the ache in my body as I put my children to bed after reading one of our favorites, The Hawaiian Night Before Christmas. Then I collapsed onto the couch in the living room staring at the dimly lit Christmas tree and the vacant cloth beneath it, feeling heartsick and paralyzed with fever. How would I retrieve the gifts in the basement, some of them unwrapped…who do you call on Christmas Eve?
I heard a quiet knock. Dragging myself up and shuffling to the kitchen door, I opened it to find Raymond holding the cage with Ryan’s hamster. I remember mumbling my appreciation and gratefulness and something about not feeling well and quickly returned to the couch.
My pallid complexion must have spoken loudly because a few minutes later, I opened my eyes to see Raymond’s wife, Lisa, and her mother standing in front of me. “Tell us what we need to do. We want to help. Go upstairs and take a warm bath. We will finish wrapping for you.”
Tears streamed down my expressionless face. I stared in disbelief. “There really is a Santa” was all I remember saying before climbing the stairs.
The next morning, still unwell, I shared in my children’s excitement of ‘Santa’s visit,’ silently nodding next door with so much love and gratitude in my heart. Ben placed Jesus in his manger, Ryan read “The Nativity Story,” and Christmas morning began.
At noon a roast pork dinner arrived. And apple pie. From the couch I enjoyed my children and their happy contentment with newly named “Snowball” and their other Christmas gifts, and welcomed them cozying up to me with books. Thankfully, my husband was home for dinner, baths, and bedtime.
Two weeks later, my sweet Ryan turned eight. He said, “Mommy, for my birthday will you hold Snowball?” I cringed. What could I say? If we didn’t have Snowball, my wonderful neighbors wouldn’t have known that I was sick. From that night on, I never went to bed before cradling our plump and warm Christmas-saving hamster in my cupped hands and whispering good night.
