Little Angels

[dropcap]C[/dropcap]hristmas isn’t about toys,” said Angie, a six-year-old, with as much sass as a glass of milk. “It’s about love and peace and swimming.”


She nodded. Such things were too obvious to require explanations.

Angie’s pal Charles, a five-year-old, says it like this: “Christmastime is all about laundry.”

“What do you mean, Charles?”

“My mom says if she has to do one more load of our stank-ass laundry, she’s going to burn our clothes and make us go to school naked.”

“Charles, that’s a bad word, we don’t say that.”

“Sorry, nude.”

Older and wiser Peter has his own commentary on Christmas. He’s eight, that’s practically old enough to vote in some states. “Christmas isn’t about presents under a tree, it’s about us. Our hearts. We’re groundskeepers of the world.” Then he stopped talking, and offered me a tissue.

“Nuh-uh!” screamed the four-year-old of the bunch. “Kiss-mus, is in the Bible, you guys!” Then, she screamed so loud she popped a vocal cord. “The Hoooo-leeeeeey Bible!”

She had a point.

I’m not sure what the point was exactly, but by God, she had one.

“Okay,” I went on. “What else would you all like this Christmas, besides toys? Anything unique?”

Angie raised her hand.

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Angie, this isn’t school.”

Angie said, “I wish my mom and dad would smile more. To be happier after work.”

Peter touched Angie’s shoulder. “Angie, Santa can’t make people smile. But it’s okay. That’s why Santa made kids.”

“Hey!” said the four-year-old. “Santa didn’t make kids, it was moms and dads who made them!”

“No,” said another. “I think it was God.”