Alison clutched the packet of icing in her hand. I closed my fingers over hers, squeezed her hand enough to make the icing flow and guided her fingers around the edges of the pre‑baked gingerbread man. She placed her other hand on top of mine to provide that extra ounce of aid that grandmothers love. I had bought a packet of four soft figures with two icing packs and one tube of red gel so we could have a grandmother‑granddaughter activity to do the day after Thanksgiving.
She trusted that my hand would lead hers and produce a cookie iced around with edges with two eyes, a nose, smiling lips and buttons. I trusted that a four‑year‑old would love anything that looked remotely like the picture on the package.
The white icing spewed a skin of sticky sugar on our hands as we finished outlining our "man." Alison grabbed the tube of red gel and squirted red swirls on her fingers and the belly of the cookie. She put the tube down and rubbed her sugary-red palms on her new white shirt. With her lips set in a firm line of determination, she reached for the next cookie, grabbed the icing tube and waited for my hand to close over hers. We had a pattern going.
"I'm making this for Santa Claus," she said.
"That's nice," I replied. Maybe I wouldn't have to eat one of our creatures after all. I'm not a fan of pre‑packaged ice‑your‑own cookies.
We finished our second cookie and started on the third one. "I have a cookie for Mrs. Claus, too," she said.
I didn't respond. These two icing packs were not going to be enough to outline four gingerbread men. As we worked on the fourth man, the icing ran out. Alison's eyes gleamed with a film of tears. "We haven't finished," she cried, her trust in grandmom dissolving.
Her dad, who appeared in the kitchen at the first sound of unhappiness, took over. "Now, Ali," Charlie said. "You know Santa Claus will bring socks to boys and girls who cry."
Socks? Then I remembered. My son was the man who hated socks and equated them with ashes and switches.
"But I don't want socks," she screamed.
"Then don't cry." Charlie left and I could see visions of the hated socks in her head. She sniffed back her tears, trusting that if she didn't, she would get socks.
In the meantime I had grabbed a bag of powdered sugar, some milk and a pat of butter. "Ali," I said, "we can make more icing." She watched closely and a smile shimmered on her lips. We finished our project. I had rebuilt her trust in me.
That night we snuggled into our coats for the trip to see Santa Claus, who would appear after the tree lighting ceremony in Old Town Alexandria. Alison refused to put on her wrap.
"We have to take the cookies to Santa Claus," she said, firmly staking out a spot in the kitchen.
My son started saying, "You know Santa Claus will bring socks..." But Beth, my daughter‑in‑law, shushed him. She grabbed four plastic bags and stuffed a gingerbread man in each one before placing them in a paper bag with handles.
I thought Alison would forget about the cookies long before we reached the stage to see Santa. She didn't. My son led her to Santa, and she handed him the bag of cookies.
Trust in the kindly figure, who would lift her onto his lap and listen to her list of wants, shattered.
"A child bringing Santa Claus a gift?" Santa bellowed. "I don't believe it." He held up the bag in one hand and shook a brown rope of bells in his other hand. The clatter of sounds almost drowned out his continued exclamations of "I don't believe it."
Ali stood immobile beside him like a deer stunned by a car's headlights. Her eyes stared at nothing, her eyelids didn't blink. My son grabbed her hand to lead her off the stage. Santa hurriedly reached into his box of candy canes and offered one to Ali. She didn't take it but Charlie did.
As we moved away from the stage's bright lights, Ali looked up at my son. "I didn't get to tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas," she said, her voice tentative with doubt and questions.
"He gave you a candy cane," Charlie replied.
"I'm sure we'll find another one of Santa's helpers who will listen to your list," Beth said.
I knelt down so I could look at Ali's face. "Trust me," I said, "Santa knows what you want for Christmas, and he will not bring you socks."
