Frances Friday: Santa and All the Reindeer, and Rudolph

Nothing has made me feel so much like a Torontonian as standing cheek by jowl in a packed subway car on a Sunday morning, most of the floor space occupied by strollers, and a much higher than normal proportion of reindeer antlers and Santa hats; or afterwards, lining up to get into the elevator once we'd finally reached our destination. Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder-to-handlebar experience (which does not create anything like jollity on a Monday morning) everyone was smiling.

Once we got to the station and everyone spilled out onto the street, the jostling for position began; and that, too, brought the Torontoness of the experience home, as I settled us into one empty-looking spot.

"There are three adults going to be standing there," one very tall woman said. "You have to find somewhere else."

"OK." I bent down to put Frances's mittens on--because these adults weren't there yet, were they? And surely we should be able to stop for long enough to prevent Frances from getting frostbite? But no.

"Look, I'm not warning you, I'm telling you. I'm going to be standing right there. And three other adults. If you want curbside seats, you have to come early."

"Right," I said, putting on Frances's hat.

"Look, if you don't move, I'm getting a police officer over here to tell you to move. There are going to be three adults standing there."

"And that's what it's all about, isn't it? The adults?" I backed the stroller up from the curb. "So much for christmas cheer, Frances."

Twenty feet down the street we found a nearly curb-side seat, and I got Frances all tucked into her blanket. At 12:25 (the parade was to begin at 12:30) she said, "I'm cold. I want to go home."

"What? No! We've come all this way and it'll start any minute now. Just a few more minutes, ok?"

"OK," she said, with a miserable little sigh.

The woman sitting in front of us on the curb (there with her own preschool child) looked back. "Do you want to move her on to the curb? I can watch from behind her. It's no problem, really."

"Are you sure? That would be great."

"Of course I'm sure! The parade is for the kids, right?"

"That's what I always thought." I slid Frances's stroller to the curb, thanked Mystery Woman profusely again, and sat down in front of the stroll on a thin strip of cement. Soon, the clowns came in to view, and the mail workers collecting letters for Santa. Frances's eyes got very large. She sat very still. She looked very solemn.

And there she stayed.

I have dozens of photos of her in that pose: eyes large, staring, little solemn mouth, as if she were watching the closing arguments in the murder trial of the century instead of a bunch of elves and clowns and princesses in sparkly snowflake dresses. It was impossible to tell if she was having any fun at all. Especially when we kept having this conversation:

"Are you cold, Frances?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to get down and jump around a bit?"

"No!"

"Do you want me to pick you up and warm you for a while?"

"NO!"

"OK."

The group beside us, of which Mystery Woman was a part, was a big family, several parents and aunts and uncles and lots of kids, and they were having a good time. Jumping, laughing, dancing, marching in the street, talking to the performers, shouting "Merry Christmas!" and "We want Santa!" (Yes, the adults too.) It was a good spot to end up in.

It's a long parade, if you've never seen it, Dear Readers. There are marching bands (including the one from Queen's University which extemporized a little dance routine in the middle of their march), hordes of clowns including the ones that walk on their hands, elves, walking gingerbread cookies, puppies, cows, bears, toys--there were the floats, of course, like Clifford the Big Red Dog, and Mickey and Minnie Mouse, and Santa's Workshop with all the elves making toys, and trains, and polar bears playing hockey, and penguins riding down an icy hill. Two hours of it. By the end, I was up and stomping my feet to keep warm (silly Mummy, I wore shoes because it wasn't snowing).

Then:

"Frances! I see Santa!"

She looks down the street, mildly curious.

"It's Santa, Frances! Let me pick you up so you can see."

She calmly peers down the street.

"Do you see Rudolph and all the reindeer?"

She nods.

"And who's that in the sleigh?"

"It's Santa."

"Are you going to say hello?"

She waves. "Hi Santa!"

"Isn't that exciting? Isn't that great?"

She nods.

"Is it time to go home and have some carrot soup?"

"Yeah."

The the whole trip in reverse: waiting in line for the elevators, waiting in line for a spot on the subway, transferring, walking home, unpacking my icicle girl-child from her stroller, setting her up with carrot soup. I could not tell if she'd had any fun, though. She didn't point or squeal or laugh or shout. She sat and looked very solemnly. At least she didn't ask to go home again, I told myself, so she must have had some fun.

Later that night her Daddy called and asked if she'd seen the parade outside, like we'd planned.

"I saw Santa and all the reindeer, and Rudolph!" she said. She's been talking about it since, to anyone who's around.

So I guess she was excited. In her own still, solemn way.

Posted by Andrea at November 23, 2007 10:11 AM under Frances Friday

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