My son is blessed with a marvellous memory. Back at nursery, he could recite all the lines from the Christmas plays by heart, which meant no one ever really knew what costume hed end up wearing, since the other kids would inevitably fall ill and he was the stand-in of choice, knowing every role by rote.
For the Christmas pageant, my five-year-old was cast as a cucumber. Upon discovering this, just before my shift at the hospital, I dashed off and bought a green T-shirt and some coloured card. With an artists flair (and running on fumes), I spent the entire night sewing a pair of little green shorts to match and fashioning a lettuce-green cardboard hat, topped with an improbable wire stalk sheathed in green fabric.
His father was on dressing duty, a scenario that filled me with precisely zero confidence. The next morning, I held a seminar over toast, going through step-by-step instructions on the correct procedure for assembling a small human into a cucumber, with particular emphasis on securing the hat.
Midway through my busy shift, I received an urgent phone call from the nursery teacher, her voice quivering. The lead part had been felled by the latest lurgy, and tomorrow my son would now star as the Gingerbread Man. To my panicked questioncould the Gingerbread Man possibly, in a modern twist, wear a cucumbers outfit?the reply was a silence more loaded than my weeks washing.
I rang my husband at work. He sounded suspiciously delighted (which, I now know, should have been a red flag). He informed me that hed enlist the help of two friendsboth surgeons, minddeclaring confidently that a trio of surgeons was an unbeatable problem-solving force. Apparently, surgeons are if nothing else enterprising men. Theyd pop home, whip up a gingerbread costume, and, presumably, celebrate in a way only men left unsupervised can.
After careering around the maternity ward all evening, I called home at nine. My son answered, announcing they’d bought a white T-shirt, Daddy was gluing yellow card, Uncle Bob was cooking, and Uncle Dave was having a jolly good laugh about it all.
An hour later, my lad cheerfully reported he was off to bed, Uncle Dave was sawing out a circle from yellow card and drawing eyes upon it, Uncle Bob was cracking open a jar of pickled onions, and Daddy was hiccupping with laughter.
At midnight, I called again. My husband informed me, with the composure of an unravelling man, that Uncle Bob and Uncle Dave had exhausted themselves making the Gingerbread Man and were now fast asleep. There were, however, some minor technicalities: the Gingerbread Man’s face, thanks to Uncle Bob’s enthusiastic application of super glue, was now attached at a rather rakish angle to the white T-shirt. When Uncle Dave attempted to rectify this masterpiece, the T-shirt tore. So they’d stitched the yellow faceusing medical silk, no lessonto the previously-made green cucumber T-shirt.
He swore up and down that it looked rather splendid, though goodness knows how. Theyd also managed to give the Gingerbread Man thirty teeth, so he was grinning maniacally; they did, however, run out of white card for two, so he was two teeth short of a full set. (Hardly noticeable! I said, nobody will count in the heat of the moment!)
So, I told myself not to paniclet the fellows sleep off their heroics. My son would have a one-of-a-kind costume. And that peculiar snoring in the background? That would be Uncle Dave, who, having skillfully crafted dozens of card teeth, had nodded off in the armchair mid-cut.
All the same, a creeping dread kept me company the rest of the night. At mornings end, I rather lost my cool with the hospitals medical director, demanding a celebratory hour off to attend my sons big day.
I arrived fashionably late. From the assembly hall, a cacophony of laughter, wails, and authentic British sniffling rang out. I cracked open the door a smidge
There, by the sparkling Christmas tree, leapt the Gingerbread Man. An enormous, round, disconcertingly lunar yellow face spanned my sons chest, from chin to knees. Its eyes gazed in wildly differing directions. Three horizontal stitchescourtesy of medical silkran thoughtfully across its forehead, giving it the air of a gingerbread philosopher whod seen some things. Most impressive was the mouth, stretched in a toothy grinexcept for two teeth, the front top pair, which were clearly and irredeemably missing.
This Gingerbread Man was not fresh out of the oven. No, he looked as though hed spent the last twenty years nursing pints in a local pub and had only recently been granted early release from a high-security establishment. For the final flourish, atop his head perched the cucumbers cheerful, lettuce-green cardboard hat with its jaunty wire stalka nod to creative recycling if ever there was one.
Just then, my son began his poem, announcing proudly: Where else would you find someone quite like me? (There was more about only in fairy tales and at nursery Christmas plays, but by then everyone in the room was dissolving into tears of laughter.) Even the teacher sank to her knees with a groan, while the crowd sobbed with gleePerhaps, in a way only children can, he carried it all with absolute confidencehead high, that crooked, moonlike face beaming out to the crowd. And as the final applause rolled over him, my son winked at me, proud as any West End star in a costume stitched together with panic, laughter, and the best kind of love.
Somebody shouted, Best Gingerbread Man ever! and for a moment, the absurdity became glory. Aunties snapped blurry photos. The teachers triedfutilelyto herd the costumed menagerie for a curtain call. And in the wild brightness of that nursery hall, I realised it didnt matter if his hat belonged to a cucumber or if his smile was missing two teeth.
It was, unmistakably, a masterpiecepatchwork, imperfect, and unforgettable. Just like family. Just like life.
And as we walked home, his small hand in mine, my son piped, Next time, can I be an octopus?
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the miraculous, slightly sticky hat. Because, by now, I knew: in our familys storybook, no fairy tale costume was ever quite what you expectedbut the magic was always real.
