Jalapeno Margs in the Sun

The most blissful sound in the entire world is the soft, barely-audible snoring of a sleeping child.

Especially when said snoring is drifting from the backseat of your car.

We were well into our hour and a half drive home from South Jersey. It was past the boys’ normal bedtime, they were pissed about leaving their “wives”—aka my best friend’s daughters, who we had just spent the whole day with—and had argued for the last twenty minutes over the song selection on Spotify—my youngest recently learned the words to Jingle Bells; realistically, it was the first two verses, which he screamed at the top of his lungs over and over again, making me half-wish I had packed ear-plugs. Happy to finally see the end of Halloween songs—the Blippi Halloween album was on constant repeat since mid-October—I obliged with most of their requests. Except for A Nightmare Before Christmas—”Halloween is over boys! No more Jack!” Eventually, their little voices—that I LOVE 90% of the time—became quieter. And then ceased all together.

I looked back at their tiny sleeping forms and heaved a sigh of relief. My husband and I had the remaining thirty minutes of uninterrupted, blissful peace.

It was a fun day. But it was a dayyyyyy.

Three years ago, in an effort to refrain from adding to the “hoard of toys” cluttering both our houses, my best friend and I decided to stop exchanging gifts between our kids. Instead, we’d do a “Christmas-Day-Out.” Creating memories instead of getting stuff; stuff that they’d be bored of within a week. Unfortunately, December weather in the Northeast can be touch and go and a lot of the kid-centric things that are outdoors are usually closed for the season. So the choices were sparse. Luckily, there’s one place that our four children love AND they have a last hoorah of the season.

Storybook Land

If you’ve never heard of it—a rarity if you live in the Great Philadelphia area—take a look at their website for a full picture. Since 1955, it’s been a child wonderland; my parents visited when they were young, as did my sisters and I. As the name suggests, it’s an old fashioned theme park that draws inspiration from fairy tales and Mother Goose Rhymes. Complete with creepy animatronic dummies, dressed as Cinderella and Red Riding Hood, you feel transported to a whimsical world full of your favorite characters. And after Thanksgiving—when the hours are reduced and limited—they turn the entire park into Santa’s village. Then at 5 o’clock, Santa uses his magic to turn on all the park’s Christmas lights, while patrons continue to enjoy the rides, lit by twinkling multi-color fairy lights.

Every year, the look on the kids’ faces as Santa appears in the chimney of his workshop is absolutely priceless.

But this year, we were sort of hoping Santa would scurry up the chimney a bit earlier. Because we were freezing our collective asses off.

Being the good parents that we are (*wink-wink*) we saw the forecasted temperature—a balmy 39 degrees—and dressed the kids and ourselves in layers upon layers, with extra blankets in our wagons. We were nearing the 3-hour mark, the kids weren’t complaining and still having a blast, but with the sun starting to go down and the temperature dropping with every minute, the rosiness of their cheeks and noses was telling. Apparently four pairs of socks on my own feet meant nothing; the toes on my left foot were completely numb. We convinced ourselves that Santa would appear at dusk—4:35 sharp. “He sees how cold it is. Let’s just get the show on the road!” we said as we gathered by the massive Christmas tree in front of Santa’s workshop. The crowd was pretty large, so we weren’t the only ones thinking it.

Welp. We can all agree that Santa is timely and prompt, but rarely early.

At precisely 5pm, Santa appeared at the top of his workshop’s chimney to an adoring, cheering crowd. He gave a 2-minute speech, reminded all the boys and girls to “be good” and that he’d grant all their wishes for Christmas. And then with a countdown and a flick of his magic wand, he turned on all Christmas lights. With the kids on our shoulders, we looked around at the colorful cavalcade of lights. “Oohs!” and “Aaaahs” were murmured, and big eyed stares were shared by the young and old alike.

It was pure, Christmas magic.

But it was fucking freezing.

And time to go.

“Mummy! Can we go on the train now!” my elder son asked as he was hoisted off my husband’s shoulders.

The train was one of their favorites rides; it took you around the entire park, which was the best way to see all the Christmas lights. Initially, we thought it’d be our last right of the night—it was last year, when it was almost 20 degrees warmer—but the massive line and the chattering of our collective teeth made us all pause. Yes, children are the reason for the season and their happiness lights up the cold, winter days but…their parents were frozen. And there were margaritas at the Mexican restaurant across the street.

“Sorry kids,” I said with eyed-permission from the three other adults in our group, “it’s too cold for the rides. Electricity doesn’t work in the cold. They’re all shut down until it warms up!”

Naturally the four littles were crestfallen but as most of those around us were headed for the exit, they didn’t question it. And why would they. It was completely plausible. Besides, they had their fun and now it was our turn.

With visions of jalapeno margaritas dancing in our heads, we hightailed it out of there and headed straight to our Mexican feast.

Dinner was more chaotic than the theme park; there was a bit of wait for a table, the kids were bouncing off the walls and getting in the way of flaming fajita skillets—part of the waiting area was directly in front of the kitchen door—my kids refused to eat—their tacos didn’t look like Mummy’s—and everyone was overly exhausted and whiney—especially my sober husband. It was one of those “We’re in public and I will not yell at my kids,” dinners where thankfully we were among friends who were in the same boat. The margaritas helped. Helped a lot.

By the time we got to the car, we were jingled, jangled, and ready to get HO-HO-Home!

(*Proud of that one!*)

So, that last thirty minutes of heavenly silence was *chefs kiss* and exactly what we needed. And since it was the official start of the holiday season, my husband put on his favorite song. Like he does every year.

Maybe it was the margaritas, but I got a little misty-eyed, thinking about the memories we were making with our kids. That twenty years from now, they won’t remember what Santa brought them for Christmas but they will remember days like today. And hopefully in those same twenty years, we’d still venture out to Egg Harbor to enjoy a—freezing—day of Christmas merriment and togetherness.

Because even if they can’t have all their family together at Christmas—which we never fully will—these people will always make them “feel safe in this world.”