That’s what I kept telling myself as my children and I huddled together in Monument Square trying to stay warm while we waited for Rick Charette to stop singing so the holiday tree could be lit and we could get out of there.
“WHEN are they going to light it?” Evan asked, his narrowed eyes proclaiming his belief that my previous assessment of, “In about 15 minutes,” had been an outright lie, and that I was withholding the actual time frame — “Not for two and a half hours! Mwa ha ha ha ha!” — as part of my maternal plot to ruin his childhood.
This year marked something like our ninth viewing of the tree-lighting. The boys were excused from the cold and the crowds in 1996, seeing as how they had just been born and were still in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Maine Med. But nearly every year since then, we have trudged up Congress Street and jockeyed for position to await the lighting of the enormous holiday tree.
We’ve done it so many times now that suffering through this evening of forced merriment while awaiting the anticlimactic countdown has become a part of our holiday tradition, and despite the fact that we don’t ever seem to actually enjoy it, we can’t let it go. This year, however, I made a concerted effort to minimize our agony.
Instead of arriving on the scene at 5 pm as we had in the past — a practice predicated upon, A) the idea that it would ensure us a “good spot,” which, incidentally, is an impossibility for three short people in the middle of a crowd; and B) my vision of us cuddling together, sipping cocoa from a thermos and savoring a peaceful family moment, a vision which never materialized primarily due the fact that I have never actually brought along cocoa (I don’t even own a thermos) — we joined the throng at 5:45, with a mere 15 minute wait till the lighting. But at 6:01, the Bubble Gum Band was still going strong, and Evan was miffed. At least this time he wasn’t swearing.
That hadn’t happened since 2001 when, after a particularly tall family shoe-horned their way into the non-existent space in front of us, he exclaimed, “I CAN’T SEE THE DAMN TREE!” at the precise moment when one song had ended and the next had yet to begin. All heads turned our way, straining to see the rude little boy — or more accurately, the parent of the rude little boy — who dared tarnish such an innocent and joyous occasion with profanity.
But as I said, this year there was no swearing. We’d positioned ourselves behind an orange and white striped wooden barrier to secure our view, and we’d arrived late-ish to minimize our wait. Yet somehow, as I bounced with artificial glee to the “Snow” chorus of Rick Charette’s “Mud” song, I couldn’t help noticing that my children still weren’t enjoying themselves.
On my left, Ian was plugging his ears with gloved hands, and on my right, Evan was glaring at the Downeast Energy mascot, a 7 foot tall puffin, who was pacing back and forth in the restricted area in front of us, obstructing our view of the tree.
I contemplated our situation for a moment, and then looked around at the other merrymakers gathered for this annual holiday hoop-de-doo. Many of the parents were doing what I was doing, attempting to engage their broods by singing along with much more zeal than the occasion merited, while many of the children stood by wiping their noses on their snot-covered mittens and alternately asking when the tree would be lit and if someone would please pick them up so they could see.
The sight of perhaps 500 people suffering through this holiday tradition together (although certainly some of them must have been genuinely enjoying themselves) brought a perverse smile to my face and I began to giggle. As much as my children and I grumbled our way through it, this tradition had become an essential part of our celebration, and on some level, we actually did enjoy it.
After the countdown, the lighting, and our hasty departure — which was accompanied by hurricane-like winds — we tumbled back into our home and snuggled up beneath blankets, smiling at our accomplishment. While attending the tree-lighting hadn’t been much fun at all, having attended it was immensely satisfying.
Next year, of course, we might not arrive until 6 pm — or perhaps even 6:30, when the spruce has already been lit, the crowd is smaller and we can view it on our own terms. But regardless of what we do in the future, I’m certain these years of enduring the wait (and the cold, and the crowds, and the kidsongs) will always remain as some of my favorite holiday memories.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed).