The Santa Question

All Christmas season I've been stewing over what to do about the Santa question.  Nobody at my house was asking.  But my sweet nine year old son was so certain that Santa's wish granting factory was chugging away on his illustrated wish list, that I felt I needed to say something.  What should I say?  Until I could answer that question, I tried not to say anything.

One night after a father and son heart to heart about wants, needs, and true happiness, the timing seemed right.  Eli sat on my lap for a hug and I whispered in his ear.

Me:  You know how I'm the Birthday Fairy?

Eli:  What?

Me:  You know how I'm the Birthday Fairy?  Remember you helped me decorate when it was Alison's birthday?

Eli:  Yeah.  That was fun.

Me:  Well, I'm also the Tooth Fairy.

Eli:  *big eyes*

Me:  It is so fun taking a tooth and putting money under your pillow.

Eli:  *smile*

Me:  I am also the Easter Bunny.  Remember the basket we had this year on the boat?  One of the best parts of being a mom or dad is making happy surprises for our kids.

Eli:  That will be fun when I'm a dad.

Me:  Also, me and Dad and sometimes Grandma or Grandpa are (dramatic pause) - Santa.

Eli:  *processing - uncertainty - worry - acceptance*

Me:  You know who I'm not?  I'm not God.  I'm not Jesus.  I'm not the Holy Ghost.  They are real and they love you and have power to bless your life.  But I am Santa.  You have to love somebody very much and know them very well to be Santa.  Now that you know the holiday secret, you can help be Santa too.  When we wrapped presents yesterday, you were being Santa.

Erik opened a package containing a wrapped gift from an unknown source.  

Me:  Would you like to write, "From Santa" on this package?  

His initial concerns about his sisters recognizing his script were quickly set aside as he pulled out a blue sharpie.  More hugs and he finally, finally went to bed.  Erik was just getting into a joke from work that day when Eli magically appeared in the living room again.  All those cozy feelings from before started cooling fast.

 

Me:  What do you need?

Eli:  You know how I believe in Santa?

Me:  Oh, great.  Present tense.  Maybe that conversation didn't go as well as I thought it did.

Eli:  That means, I believe in you!

More hugs.  Can you believe this kid?!  I love Christmas.

Platinum Dad

Eli is a believer.  He wrote a beautifully illustrated letter to Santa this year.  Easy.  One stop at the Nintendo store and Santa could make all of Eli's Christmas wishes come true.  I even stamped the letter and mailed it to a florist shop on St. Nicholas street in North Pole, Alaska.  Thanks, Google!  The more earnest he was, the more nervous I got.  Knowing full well that Santa is not bringing him anything on his list, we've all been trying to manage his expectations without spoiling the magic.  Now, there's a trick!

Last night, he was on about Santa bringing him a WiiU again and Karina was gave him a sisterly lecture that started with, "Hey, I'm not getting what I want this year either." And ended with Eli crying, "We should have never gone on the boat."  I took over before Karina got to her conclusion.  "It was going to be really good," she told me.

With a prayer in my heart, I told him that I love him.  I showed him the Ikea Christmas commercials about kids who want attention more than stuff.  He was not impressed and seemed a little nervous about the direction our conversation was going.  Just when I was about to confess the whole big fat Santa lie, my hero arrived home from work.  That man is worth his weight in chocolate covered almonds!!  

At first he didn't want to speak to us because Eli and I each had nostrils packed with tissue.  'Tis the season!  I convinced him this was a tender discussion about the human experience, namely, Why do some kids get what they want, but I don't?  Erik set down his bag.  He took off his coat.  He thought for a moment.  Then he engaged in what I can only call Platinum Parenting and I knew my role had been to stall until Dad got home.  Here is a transcript of their discussion.

Erik:  You say what you want most is a WiiU.  But what you mean is that a WiiU is what you want   most -that you don't have.  Do you want to know the secret to happiness?

Eli:  nods yes

Erik:  Your mom and I learned early on in our marriage that the secret to happiness is being grateful.  What are some of the things that you do have?

Eli:  A family that loves me.

Erik:  We do love you.  What else?

Eli:  My plushies.  (plush Nintendo stars: Luigi, Mario, and CatMario which he takes everywhere)

Erik:  Yes.  What else?

Eli:  A home, food, my pajamas, other clothes, a place to sleep.

Erik:  There is no end to the things we don't have.  That goes for me, for Mom, for Karina, for Sarah Jane...  Right now you want a WiiU, but if you had that, you'd be able to think of something else you'd want.  If you want to be happy, then you'll be more grateful for the things that you do have.  Can I show you something.  (He pulls up the NYT Year in Pictures 2014)

Here's a country that at war.  These are refugees running away.  These people are being shot at.  This team lost the Super Bowl.  This girl got injured in a police fight.  These people are trying to sneak into the country and being met by border patrol.  These women are voting despite threats of violence.  These people died when their building blew up from a gas leak.  This person fell off a horse. These people are angry with their government.  These people are praying for relatives who died when their boat sank.  These kids are practicing what to do in case a shooter comes into their school, these people don't have enough food.

We don't need to look at all of the pictures.  I'll tell you how I feel about Christmas.  Big or small, something or nothing - if we have grateful hearts we can be happy.  You'll see friends get things that you wished you had and that can be hard.  We want to give you everything that you want, but we will give you the best we can.  We will give you a gift because we love you.  It probably won't be the gift that you want, but we hope you like it.  If you want to think about some gifts you can give others, that's another way to feel really great.

Emily, is there anything else you want to add or improve upon?

Me:  No.  I cannot improve upon what you just said.

I am SO in love with this guy!!  #howtodad

We finished up with some snuggles and sent the little scamp to bed.

Reefing the Sail

This is a parenting technique I learned from sailing.


"Reefing is a sailing manoeuvre intended to reduce the area of a sail on a sailboat or sailing ship, which can improve the ship's stability and reduce the risk of capsizing, broaching, or damaging sails or boat hardware in a strong wind." -Wikipedia

For example, if four of your children simultaneous declare they need to use the one and only bathroom in your apartment, but the seven year old is the only one who says, "I need to go. I'm after Mom!" and your nearly-teenager starts having a stomp-shout fit about it because she was technically the first to say, "I need to go!," then you can reef the sail. In this, hypothetical case, you may smack said pre-teen with a long wooden kitchen spoon imported from Tunisia. Or you may take her precious face in your hands and fiercely whisper, "Don't do this." Or you may smile smugly to yourself at the cliche response of those under the influence of what we here like to call The Pubonic Plague and move on to helping another child find their socks, grateful you've already had your turn in the loo. This last would be an example of reefing the sail.

Fair Winds!

More of my favorite sailing eye-candy

Bedfellows: ownership & generosity

I'm not ignoring my fighting girls in the next room. I can hear every word they're saying. I'm letting them work it out.

1: "Get off my BED!!!"

3: "Why are you screaming at me? Why is it such a big deal?!"

1 "I have to scream at you because when I ask you to get off, you don't get off unless I scream at you!"

1,2,3: Variety of yelling, screaming and high pitched harumphing.

Maybe I am ignoring them. I'd better see if I can model some problem solving skills for my beloved daughters.

Me: Do we live in a big house or a small house?

1,2,3: A small house.

Me: Do you have lots of private things and spaces or actually just one private space in the whole apartment?

1,2,3: Just one private space

Me: And what is that private space?

1,2,3: My bed

Me: That's right. Your bed is your one private space that is just for you. You do not have to share it. However, because your bed is your one private space it also gives you an opportunity to be generous. You can extend an invitation to a friend or a sibling to sit or play on your bed and that should be recognized as an act of generosity. In this house, you are not expected to agree all the time. You ARE expected to be kind and respectful to each other. If someone says you cannot go on their bed, I will back them up on that.
Below: This is how we fit five kids into one bedroom (crib left of door)


I'm actually happy that I get to share my bed with someone I love, but it does make me wonder, what is my private space? I share a desk, a computer, a dresser, a closet and a cell phone. Honestly, there is usually somebody reading over my shoulder. My only privacy is in my thoughts. Generally, I want to share those as well. Maybe since my thoughts are the only things that are truly mine, sharing them is the only way I can be generous. So like Dogberry of Much Ado About Nothing, I bestow all my tediousness on you. ;)

Inspection

For the past several evenings I've played witches and evil queens who come to inspect the children's after dinner chores. The silverware must be dry and orderly in the drawer. The tables and counters cleaned smooth from dried food or glue and so on. My children are inspired by the impending inspection, anxious to see my costume and curious how I will behave in my new character. We finish clean-up more quickly than usual, notwithstanding the time it takes to dress up and inspect each chore. Afterwards, they rush to get ready for bed in time for the "reading fairy" who will simply pass by to the next house without giving them a bedtime story if they don't have their jammies on and teeth brushed. It's another costume, another voice, another attitude. As is often the case with people, slow is fast and they are actually getting to sleep earlier.

I know it sounds like silliness, what else could it be? We got the idea from Betty Macdonald's famous Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle. I've learned a couple of things though. The first is that my children want their work to be inspected. They like to know they will receive legitimate praise for a job well done. They also appreciate the refreshing, playful element of surprise. I've learned that I don't like being the bad guy. I've heard actor's say that playing villains is the most interesting. I don't like playing the disappointed witch or selfish queen. Tonight I was the almost-Empress inspecting all the preparations for the upcoming wedding party. My seven year old dried the dishes happily once I explained she was really shining the gold and silver for my royal banquet. They especially loved the kowtows and "My deepest regards to the carpet lady." It was much more fun looking for things to praise lavishly. Later, as the genie-of-work-and-reading, I read aloud while they took turns sorting laundry. Nobody had to work for more than 3 minutes at a time and I got to wear another fabulous costume. ;)

I don't have the energy or inclination to do this every night. But it's delightful to sprinkle it throughout the week. In between, I'm learning to inspect their work and follow-up with judgement. I let them know if improvement is required, but usually I can just praise their thorough work and cheerful attitudes. I have to write about this now while it's still fresh and working. Who knows what next week will bring in the adventures of parenting?

Story Problem

“Can we listen to Hannah Montana?” Already, I was dubious about the wisdom of this endeavor. One pregnant woman on a 30 hour road trip from New York City to St. Simons, Georgia, minus one busy husband, plus four children under ten stuffed shoulder to shoulder in a minivan; great idea or hormonally induced catastrophe?! I had avoided traveling alone with kids since a blizzard stranded me as the sole pair of arms to bear the baggage, car seats and collective tears of three small girls watching an empty luggage carousel make its pointless midnight rounds. Though my devoted husband, My Hero, wasn’t available for this new adventure, we had places to go; life to live! Besides, there are no blizzards in September. True, we had added a fourth child (a boy!) in the intervening years and I was well along in a new pregnancy. Still, I only planned to fill the van for one day each way. I would deposit Star, my type-A firstborn, and Angelfish, my wanderer, with their aunt in Maryland while I continued to Georgia with the clingy younger children, Sparkle and Torpedo. Once in Georgia they would be completely absorbed into the same-age children of my hosting friend. Essentially, it would be a kid-free vacation.

This paradisiacal plan sprouted from an humble intent to tour the White House. My Maryland sister had importuned her congressman and six short months later our extended family had been granted access. New York to D.C. had been the impetus upon which our “side trip” to Georgia embellished. This was also supposed to be the easy part of the journey. But the distance between point A and point B now stretched into a sharp, eternal ray. Near stand-still city traffic meant hours in the car, guzzling our allotment of bottled water, covering very little distance. Even with the aforementioned pop diva, once all that water raced through their little systems the typical whines took on a fevered urgency. Only ten miles outside of the city, I informed my belligerent brood that we could not possibly stop this close to home. Star voiced the growing consensus, “Mom, we’re hungry and we have to go!” Maybe the diaper days weren’t so bad after all. I envisioned unbuckling, entering, sticky fast-food fingers, tense whiny exits, and buckling four sweaty bodies back into the same seats now dusted in pretzel crumbs, all deviations from my plan. My shoulders dropped in defeat and I mildly resented the universal release of tension from my triumphant mutineers as we rounded the next exit.

My boy set a New Jersey Turnpike record for the most items attacked by a single toddler at a single rest stop. I grimaced and supported my pregnant belly with one hand while sprinting past indecisive travelers, blankly thumbing artless postcards, to save the Sunglass Hut from Torpedo's disastrous touch. I did not get there first. Star did. Her steady hand deftly caught his chubby wrists before he even grazed the expensive eyewear. Where did she come from? Still in the astonished moment, I spun chasing Torpedo with my eyes. He was headed for the arcade, but Star and Angelfish were racing after him unasked and with surprising success. His small stature enabled him to dart through travelers, but he couldn’t shake them. My husband calls the addition of each new child a “promotion” to which I respond by rolling my eyes, but maybe he had a point after all. I couldn’t safeguard four children at a busy rest stop by myself, but maybe I could delegate. I had to delegate. Angelfish supervised Sparkle at the food court table. Star shadowed our two-year-old Tasmanian. I shouted directions from my position in a slow line for fast food. A well timed rest stop always lightens the mood. For me it was something more, more than a high fructose corn syrup haze. It was the revelation that I could count on my children for meaningful help. We were becoming a team.

Traveling hours are like dog years, especially when listening to “tween” music. I snuck in a few lectures regarding lyrical subtext, but I also memorized many of their favorite songs as we perfected our stereo time-share. Confession: I actually liked most of it. Star's shot-gun seat gave her the most freedom of movement for car dancing, but Angelfish shook her abundant copper hair to great effect. Miraculously, Torpedo slept soundly despite Sparkle “dancing” in the back of his chair. My short legs didn’t allow much room between my belly and the steering wheel, but I caught some of their standout moves in the rearview mirror. Their car dancing choreography all seemed to fit together coglike until it suddenly didn’t. We were only 90 minutes from our nighttime destination when Armageddon rumbled behind me. “She’s leaning on me!” Push. “Well, she hit me!” Glare. “We already listened to her song five times.” Smirk. Shove. “WuuuaaaahhhHHH.” Torpedo wasn’t sleeping anymore. No debates. We veered onto the exit ramp for another micro-managed rest stop. Well past bedtime I finally pushed in the parking brake at Grandma’s house. We could boast an enviable collection of free local maps from the last rest stop, but that would have to wait till morning. We quietly sank into the deep slumber of those who sit too long and stretch too little.

We had two excursions planned for our time in D.C. The White House tour was obviously the jewel at the center of this chain of events. But first we squeezed in a big kids visit to Mount Vernon while Grandma babysat. We had annual membership passes and a systematic approach. We had already viewed the welcome center, the main house, the herb gardens and slave quarters on previous visits. We determined that an indoor expedition would be wise as the mercury was pushing 100. So we kept a steady, if somewhat limp, march over the few hundred sweltering yards to the education center. Beads of sweat were already forming on Angelfish's brow and Star's cheeks were pink with the heat. We had nearly reached our turn off when a free shuttle bus parked at the stop immediately in front of us. Maybe Torpedo's absence made me adventurous. One glance toward my matted girls raised the question. Our deliberate plan included air conditioning and educational opportunities, but this bus shuttled to a boat waiting on the Potomac River only a mile or so away. They resisted. “We need air conditioning.” Nevertheless, they loyally followed me through the open doors where we joined several elderly women in pastel pant suits and name-tags. I smiled, “Hey! The bus has A/C.”

The half-sized bland colored bus bumped along steep forest trails like some ancient roller-coaster ride. We braced ourselves. More than once, I expected to hit a tree. How many pacemakers had been activated on this pilgrimage? We lived to behold to the lazy Potomac river. Other sweaty tourists who had survived the shuttle bus sat under a pavilion fanning themselves with glossy brochures awaiting the next boat. Dust from the departing shuttle bus had settled before we realized that no boat rides were included in our membership. Bummer. We instinctively felt the miles separating us from the air conditioning so precious in southern climates. The unusually calm river did nothing to abate the humidity and supported an abundant mosquito population. I had gambled and lost.

Trudging up the return path, we discovered a four-acre living museum plantation on our left. We hadn’t seen it in shuttle bus blur and I had never heard of it. No other tourists were there. In fact, it almost seemed we had stepped through a time warp to find farmers planting cabbage, touching tobacco plants and carding cotton. An encouraging breeze picked up and carried the cool of the river just across our cheeks and shoulders. My delighted daughters spent the next two hours receiving private training in the horticulture techniques of the 18th century. Watching Angelfish converse with an elderly farmer and plant cabbages in the dust, dripping in costume jewelry rhinestones and sweat, it struck me that my children were between times. They were between fashionista and farmer, between city and country, but also between childhood and the adult world. They were between following and leading. I realized that ‘between’ was a wide open space full of surprising opportunities.

Emboldened by our Mt. Vernon successes, I felt ready for the White House. My childhood dream was coming true. Background checks and security measures which stripped us of water bottles and cell phones only added to the prestige. We were prompted at every turn of our self-guided tour not to sit, not to touch, and not to breathe too freely in the historic halls. My children complied. They didn’t sit on or touch anything. In fact, I had to catch my breath just to keep up with them. They raced past photographs. They barely registered paintings, décor or the craftsmanship of custom cast doorknobs, molding, fire places, etc. They whizzed through so quickly that I wasn’t sure if they’d seen more than an historical blur which probably looked much like any other blur. After the fact, they did recall “sparkly chandeliers” as the standout feature of the famous building. This 25 minute jog through the big white house with “sparkly chandeliers” had been the premise for my entire adventure. I was flabbergasted.

Nevertheless, a pattern for success began to emerge: if the kids were willing to try new things and I was willing to be flexible we all had fun. I enjoyed being with my children. They enjoyed being with each other. They enjoyed being with me. In this miraculous moment I did not want to leave them behind. Given the choice, I wanted to spend 20 more hours crammed in the car and two more days unbuckling, buckling and spreading Georgian sand everywhere with my children. I invited Star and Angelfish to join us. They weren’t impressed by my palm tree appeal, but to my amazement, their proclivity for sleeping in won them over. Evidently, waking up for the seminary class Auntie was teaching that week was less desirable than squishing in the mini-van for 20 hours where you can, after all, sleep.

On departure morning there was little eagerness. Fearing mal de mer, Angelfish nearly escaped without eating breakfast. Sparkle couldn’t find her shoes because she wouldn’t look for them. And Torpedo arched his back in opposition to the car seat. Only my ten year old gem, Star, sparkled with cooperation. Of course, she was riding shotgun and felt the pleasure of her new privileges and responsibilities; not the least of which was controlling the radio. Before the first CD ended, Angelfish did lose her breakfast in the backseat. Armed with a container of wet wipes, Star bravely released her seatbelt and shimmied into the backseat to minister to her suffering sister. With all of the windows opened, our noses eventually adapted to the offense. I empathized with Star. Responsibility was sometimes overrated. Only nine driving hours left for the day.

As we trekked further south of the Mason-Dixon line an odd pattern emerged. We had to make multiple stops for every break. One stop would provide public lavatories, grassy spaces, picnic tables and huge civil war plaques; another stop to fuel the car and a third stop for food. That meant fumbling with seatbelts at least 20 times and finding eight pairs of shoes. Growl. They were clean and well stocked, but in a region famous for its hospitality, the rest stops were unexpectedly inconvenient. Star chased squealing Torpedo in a game called “Don’t die in the parking lot.” Luckily, she was mostly winning because I was too tired to play. I merely watched from the little nest my crossed arms made for my head on a rough hewn picnic table. Angelfish and Sparkle entertained themselves by balancing on the raised gardens ledges around civil war plaques. They found fun at a rest stop with nothing more than a public lavatory, historical plaques and some picnic tables. Surely I could pick myself up by my sandal straps and exhibit a little enthusiasm as well. I corralled my sticky, smiling family around a huge sign boldly declaring “Georgia” and took a picture to prove to my children, lest any of us forget, that I did take them somewhere…once.

Then, I almost took them nowhere. We arrived on St. Simons island after dark. Even a small island can hold infinite wrong turns. Star instinctively understood “Are we lost?” was taboo and transmitted the message to the backseaters who stopped rumbling about the lack of travel tunes, food, space, light, etc. She shifted calmly into navigator mode and maintained constant cell phone communication with my girlfriend as I repeatedly traversed the same few blocks in the last uncertain minutes of our drive. Thanks to her, we finally parked in front of the correct house and stumbled onto the spongy southern grass. “You made it!” my friend cheered. “What’s that smell?”

We had a singularly happy time with our friends against the gorgeous and varied setting of St. Simons, Georgia. Serendipity netted us 19 live sand dollars, an amazing chocolate bread pudding and countless tender memories. Our return trip was smooth. We functioned in concert; little cogs fitted tightly together in a watch. If the cogs were separate, they wouldn’t bump into each other, but the watch would stop. We bumped into each other constantly, but we could soften the blow by working in rhythm and responding to each other’s needs. Yes, we made more unplanned rest stops. We bought greasy, sticky food to make our blood sugar soar. We buckled on shoes and seatbelts ad naseum. We got lost again. And we may never get all the crumbs from the secret crevices all minivans hide, but we will never forget our journey. Based on this proof, my hopeful hypothesis is that the odd family in this story problem can continue at the speed of happiness from point A forever.