I Believe

Wanna know something that gives me the sads? The degradation of the tradition of Santa Claus. I’ve been reading a lot about it on Facebook. I believed in Santa until I was 11 years old. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I believed even AFTER I found a record player in my parents’ closet and my mom told me Santa dropped it off early because it wouldn’t fit in the sleigh with all the other stuff. I wanted to believe. I was also kind of naive and gullible. But I happen to find those qualities in children BEAUTIFUL. Now, I’m not trying to stir up a shit storm here. I know very nice and well meaning people who have bucked this tradition. And I don’t judge for that. Everyone has the right to raise their children the way they choose. But I am very traditional and if I choose to give this gift of joy to my children, I expect for others not to take that way from them…or me. Because, truly, that’s what it is to me–joy. I would be livid beyond description if someone told one of my children there was no such thing as Santa. It is not someone else’s right to deny me the privilege of raising my children the way I choose with the traditions I choose.

Here’s the thing: I love Santa and everything he stands for. I love the magic and anticipation he brings. I love that my girls believe in something they cannot see. I love that they are naive enough to do so. I love that they are little and innocent and I am trying my hardest to keep them that way for as long as possible. I love that they have such full hearted faith in something that is so utterly unbelievable. I love that they trust me enough to make that leap of faith. And I do not, by any means, believe that it is a betrayal of that trust to perpetuate the legend of Santa Claus. I also do not for one second believe that they will be any worse for the wear when they find out that Santa is imaginary. Which, for the record, I have no plan of ever outright admitting to them. I will fully expect them to play along with me until I pass the torch to them when they are mothers (God willing).

See, I don’t agree with the argument that we shouldn’t be “lying” to our children. I am not of the opinion that children should be exposed to all “truth”. I lie to my kids all the time, by omission and otherwise, and I dare anyone to tell me they don’t do the same, at least occasionally. Sitting too close to the tv will not make you blind. Making ugly faces will not make your face freeze that way. Dogs don’t really go to heaven (wait…or do they?) Sometimes, we tell our children things just because we want them to believe what we are saying, for whatever reason. Because we want them to do what is right or spare them heartache or because they are simply too young to understand certain realities. I choose to tell them that Santa is real because it’s good and wholesome and fun. Because if I can create something joyful and magical (and harmless) for them to experience, I feel that it is my RESPONSIBILITY as a mother to do that. You know why? Because the world is ugly and full of things that I wish my girls would never know about–sadness and pain and suffering. Because they have the rest of their lives to discover the “truth” about life. Because kids grow up too fast and they lose their innocence too soon. They should be given the chance to believe in goodness and magic as long as possible. Because Santa will teach them that even though they can’t have a tea party with Jesus, he is indeed real. They will learn to have faith; to BELIEVE in something. To me, there is no harm in any of this. And if anyone can point me in the direction of a homeless meth junkie or sicko serial killer who blames his misdeeds or bad fortune on his parents for “lying” to him about the existence of Santa Claus, I will stand corrected.

Now, this brings me to the meaning of Christmas. I would agree that maybe Christmas is a little too commercialized and all that jazz. But in our home, we have impressed upon our girls that Christmas is about celebrating the birth of Christ (well, not the little one…she’s too young to understand that Santa isn’t bringing her cake and pizza, so I don’t expect her to grasp Jesus’ birthday). They just think that Jesus loves us so much and is so generous that he has his friend St. Nick bring us all the presents on His birthday. Even though I love Santa, trust me…I’m not hatin’ on Jesus. Our Christmas priorities are, in my opinion, straight. I do not believe Santa should trump Jesus at Christmas under any circumstances. But I do believe they go hand in hand.

The bottom line is that I chose this for my children. You may choose otherwise. But don’t judge me and I won’t judge you. And for the love of all that’s holy, if you tell my child there is no such thing as Santa, you’d better hide in a place harder to find than Osama Bin Laden’s cave in Afghanistan. Because if I find you, it’s on like Donkey Kong.

Merry Christmas!

12:56

It is 12:56 a.m. and my mom hat is still firmly in place. I’m about to come undone.

E took an approximately 23 minute nap today but AK slept for about an hour and a half. Just enough of a nap for her to wake up about as grouchy as a bear stuck in a trap and be awake until 10:30. When she finally went to bed, right on cue, E started up. She evidently thinks she took her nap between 8:00 and 10:30 p.m. because she is not taking to the idea of going to bed so well.

Hear this: I am about to lose my marbles.

You know how airline pilots are only allowed to fly for a certain number of hours before they are mandated to rest? And it doesn’t even matter if there are 300 people waiting to get to their grandma’s funeral or their sister’s wedding or a bowling tournament. They’re just shit out of luck if the pilot needs a rest. They either have to wait or find a new pilot.

Well, it really is too bad that we don’t have that rule for moms.

After 8 hours there should be a mandatory rest period (but if your husband is out of town and you’re on your own, then it should be more like 6). And anyone who needs water, a diaper change, medicine, clean underwear, a back scratch, a new roll of toilet paper, Desitin or a snack would just be shit out of luck. Because when Momma reaches her limit, Momma is grounded. It would say so in the rule book. Better yet, if there could be a replacement we could just call in that would be fantastic. Like tag team wrestling. Whoomp there it is.

So this should serve as the official call for my replacement. I’m tappin’ out. I’m about to cut up my mom hat with a really sharp pair of scrap booking scissors, douse it in ketchup and dump it all over our swing set.

And of course, this weekend, my other half is down in the land of sunshine, black beans and Gloria Estefan. Why do little peeps go for the jugular when we’re most vulnerable and have no reinforcements?! It’s like they have a weakness radar. They can smell fear. And mine also have some sort of gps on my ass because when I sit down, an alarm is activated to make them cry for me to get up. It’s remarkable.

Now she’s asleep. HALLELUJAH! Good night.

The sun’ll come out……

Mall Observations

I went to the mall today.

ALONE.

It was glorious.

But a couple things struck me.

First, I went to Sears to return an overpriced toy I found online for much cheaper WITH free shipping. No brainer. I was behind a woman in line with an excellent specimen of a mullet. It was the perfect ratio of business in the front to party in the back; the perfect balance of wavy and scraggly. Now, this led me to wonder…SOMEONE is giving her this hairstyle. SOMEONE is cutting this mullet into her hair purposefully.

My question is this: what hairstylist is giving out mullets in 2011? Whoever they are, their cosmetology licenses should be revoked for flagrant abuse. When some woman comes into a hair salon (or more likely a “beauty parlor”) and asks for a mullet or any such hairdo (a rose by any other name…) she should be strong armed into going with another style–ANY OTHER STYLE–or else refused service altogether.

The lady in front of me had a husband with her too. I kept wondering why he is supporting her mullet. If I tried to rock a mullet, I’m pretty sure my sweet and diplomatic husband would find a way of letting me know that he wouldn’t be seen in public with me sporting a mullet. And not to mention that this lady looks in the mirror everyday and thinks her hair looks great. Apparently so, because she keeps going back for more mullets. It is beyond all reason.

Now this leads me to baby mullets. People of the world, stop torturing your babies with bad mullets. I know it’s hard to get that first haircut. But what do you think is sadder? Cutting off your child’s beautiful curly baby locks or letting that child toddle around looking like she is heading to Daytona in a Camaro Iroc Z with a box of Marlboro Reds rolled up in her onesie sleeve and a tramp stamp of Hulk Hogan poking out of her diaper? I would argue the latter.

Now for another subject. If you have ever willingly taken up an offer from an Eastern European of indeterminate nationality kiosk worker to rub a heating pad, or worse, use a flat iron on your hair please raise your hand.

I do not understand why this is still their marketing strategy.

Are there people who actually do stroke the lilac scented, starry patterned bed buddy when it’s shoved in their faces? I wouldn’t touch that thing with someone ELSE’S hand.

Or are there women so desperate for straight hair they are willing to stop in the mall and let someone use a communal flat iron on their locks? I just cannot conceive of anyone granting these requests from the creepy kiosk dudes.

It must be working for them seeing as how they are still there jumping out at me with evil grins from behind every kiosk in the mall. It gives me the freaks.

My adorable little E woke from her nap at 2:23. That nap started at 2:00. All condolences are greatly appreciated.