The Truth About Santa Claus

My nearest sister called me yesterday with some tragic news: her youngest daughter, who is not quite 10, found out the day before that Santa Claus is not real. Or as her newly-enlightened classmate who told her put it, "your parents have been lying to you all this time."


My niece is the youngest member of our collective family, so this sad milestone is particularly grievous, as it is the stark demarcation between childhood and the Real World. This marks the moment in time when all her childhood beliefs and fantasies will come into question under the harsh light of reality and be found wanting. Innocence is set aside and is replaced with sly knowing and a gradual forgetting of that in childhood that is sweet and accepting. As Abby passes through this portal, the generational shift moves perceptibly further down the line. Her newfound knowledge reminds me of my own aging, my own loss of childhood joy, my own crumbling mortality.


The year she turned five, Dear Daughter turned to me while we were decorating our scraggly artificial Christmas tree. It was still just the two of us, living in a small apartment with our little bird and our hopes and dreams. "Mom," she said. "Are you lying to me about all of this Santa Claus stuff? Because if it's not true, I don't want to have a tree or presents or Christmas or anything."


My heart sank to my shoes. Who could have been so mean-spirited as to cast the shadow of doubt in the heart and mind of my sweet, trusting little girl, and at such an early age. I pulled her to the couch and we sat and looked at our tree with its polyglot of ornaments--pine cones rolled in glue and glitter, cut-foam figures coated in buttons and marker, a construction paper reindeer with a preschool photo glued to its flank, and assorted strings of beads and lights. We talked about Christmas--the infant Jesus in the manger, the gift of a loving God. We talked about Advent--the candles, the waiting, the time of examining ourselves. We talked about St. Nicholas of Myra and his care for children and how he came to be the figure we know as Santa Claus.


I told her that Santa is most certainly real. That even if there isn't really a man in a red suit with flying reindeer and sleigh, he is real in the love that makes the miracles of Christmas happen. Santa is real in the excitement and preparation that surrounds the season. Santa is real in the love that we share when we give and receive gifts. Santa is another reminder of the love we are given from God through the baby Jesus. Even though we choose to portray him as a portly old man with a smoking habit and questionable fashion sense, he really looks like love.

Dear Daughter was satisfied with this explanation, and even years later her own eyes were opened by an older cousin, it wasn't a traumatic moment, because she'd already rationalized it in her own mind. Santa still pays his yearly visit to Dachshund Downs, and she's every bit as delighted at 14 by the magic and sweetness as she was at four. I'm sorry to hear that my niece is upset about finding out the "truth," but I know she'll be all right. Santa will still come to her as well, because Santa is love. Santa is magic. Santa is real.

And so it begins...

Tonight was another milestone for Dear Daughter--the very first Middle School Dance. Despite weeks of discussion and preparation, neither of us was really ready for this. I had all kinds of reasons for trepidation-- starting with my natural tendency to be a spazz. I'm sorry--I am an overprotective mother. I can't help it. I worry. She's my only child. It's all happening too fast. And I can't say that two shootings in the local public schools inside of a week, plus the terrible tragedy at Northern Illinois University have helped. She's only 12, and events like a school dance should be happy, exciting and fun.

For the past month, Dear Daughter has moped around telling me that she has no friends and that no one likes her. Judging from the giggling squad of girls who waved frantically calling her name when I dropped her off, I'd say this might be an exaggeration. I'm not discounting her feelings. These are tough years. The Hormone Fairy is causing random mood swings and the pressure of increasingly complex school work is mounting. Girls and boys who have been friends for five years or so are suddenly looking at each other with new eyes, and wondering how to channel new, strange feelings. Dear Daughter tells me who in her class is "going out" with whom and who "broke up" with whom. "Going out?" In sixth grade? I ask her, "where do they go? 'Out' the front door into the yard? This isn't real dating (thank heavens), but it's a nervous little prelude to what will come in a few years. I don't much like it. I want her to enjoy herself, but I'd be happy if the pressures of crushes and girl-feuds and weird boys could be put off just a while longer.

I helped her roll her hair and bent my usual inflexible rules about makeup and let her wear a smidgen of mascara. She has been armed with her own lip gloss for a while now. She did look sweet and comfortable. I dropped her off and she disappeared into a sea of kids.

Two hours later I walked into the noisy din of the school cafeteria. She was easy to spot, even among the 899 other sweaty, rowdy students. She was smiling. She was hanging out with a giggling group of girls who had spent the evening taking photos, eating pizza, swilling soda and chasing classmates around the room.

She's calming down a little before bed. It was a great evening for her. It turned out okay for me as well. She's still my little girl. Right now, she's snuggling in the bed with her dear old stuffed Bunny, laughing at some shared joke between them. The future can wait. All's right with the world.

Towards a More Colorful Vocabulary

Due to all kinds of things today--disagreement with Dear Daughter first thing in the morning, hitting my elbow on a soap dispenser in a YMCA shower, certain aspects of my job and the afternoon/evening errands I have planned, I owe the Swear Jar about $836. My mouth lately has, as they say, gone pretty far south, and I’m abysmally ashamed of myself. Fortunately, today is the last day of my hormone therapy and life should be quickly getting back to pseudo-normal.

I truly thought I'd outgrown all of this, but apparently I haven't. I’m really quite embarrassed about it. Throughout my life I’ve gone through phases of extreme language usage, but I’m usually able to check it pretty quickly. The past month has not been so bad, in spite of a stress level that rocketed through the roof and past the stratosphere. This past week though…I’m inclined to blame it on the Prometrium, but I suspect there’s an underlying moral failure at work here.

There’s a poem—I can’t remember the writer or the title just now – about crows cawing in the road over a piece of roadkill, and likening their harsh, repetitive cries to a habitual user of profanity. Crows use the only word they know, and with vigor and emphasis. Lately, the words (or words) I’ve been using have been rather, um, crow-like in their harshness and lack of depth.

When Dear Daughter was about two years old (see? there’s a terrible precedent here), she came flying into my room at bedtime, threw her stuffed Bunny on the bed and announced “I’m going to put my (universal adjective) Bunny to bed now.” My jaw and my heart dropped. I swooped her up and hugged her and said, “I’m so sorry you’ve heard Mommy use that horrible word. It’s such a bad word, and I’m very sorry I’ve used it. I am going to try to never use it again, and I hope that you won’t either, because it’s such an awful word.”

She looked up at me with those sweet blue eyes and said, “You mean like g** d*****?”

So, I’m admitting in public, because confession is good for us, that I have a potty mouth that really needs some work this week. It’s only Tuesday and my swearing is more than my mortgage.

Send me your favorite words—the good ones. The nice ones. The ones that make you think of things and people you love. The words that taste good in your mouth and make you want to say them over and over out-loud. I obviously need to refresh my vocabulary with some better words, especially before my bank account runs dry.

Shopping and Other Exercises in Futility

Dear Daughter is growing up. Since starting this blog, I've chronicled a bit of the drama and trauma associated with making the transition from little girlhood to young lady land. Mostly, it's not been so bad. At heart, she's really a great kid who is still rather eager to please and is a truly sweet and kind person. I am amazed at her thoughtfulness and desire to help others. Life with her is happy and exciting, even as we enter the emotional and physical minefield of prepubescence. I can handle her no longer finding it funny (at least not in a good way) when I dance in public or sing along with the radio. I can handle the fact that the days of the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus are all fading in the rear-view mirror. I can handle her dissing my deodorant as "old-lady smelling" and dropping words like "emo" and "dang" into her speech in a manner that is easy and familiar, as if they get used quite a bit around a certain middle-school lunchroom. I can even handle that seemingly overnight she leapfrogged past me in shoe sizes. What I am having trouble with is shopping for clothing. Fortunately, she has enough natural modesty and body-consciousness that she doesn't tend toward too many outrageous styles. Like most young girls, she did go through her phase of over-accessorizing and drenching herself in sugary lipgloss and cloyingly inexpensive perfume. I chuckled at her a little behind her back and let it go. Fortunately, it ran its course and her taste is now a little more classic, even at the tender age of 12. Today we spent two hours looking for one dress. Dear Daughter has always been tall, and while we haven't yet had a visit from the Hormone Fairy, her body type has definitely left the Children's Department behind and we've entered the bewildering and often scary world of Juniors. Browsing through the racks of two major department stores and three smaller chains, I found myself asking the question "Junior What?" Streetwalker, perhaps? Aspiring Pop Star, a la such role models as Miss Spears and Miss Lohan? It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack than to find a dress suitable for a 5' 4" pre-teen with no hips, breasts or need to go strapless in public. I'm not sure if the world has left me behind or if I'm just terminally fuddy-duddy. My sister would vote for the latter, but I just don’t see why clothing manufacturers can’t make just a few styles suitable for young girls to wear to, oh, I don’t know, church?

I tend to view culture rather like an MS Word document…that little “track changes” tool is always on, and I reserve the right to accept or reject changes at any time. I can’t stop her from growing up. Actually, I don’t even want to. While I will always be wistful for those days when I could actually pick her up and she would make up songs and stories about her stuffed rabbit, and dressing her was an enterprise easily accomplished in the 4-6x department, I am relishing this journey. Watching Dear Daughter grow and mature is an adventure unlike any I could imagine, and I wouldn’t trade it for two red ponies and a sack of feed. She’s a beautiful and wonderful young lady and everyday brings something new and exciting. We don’t always see eye to eye (well, not figuratively, anyway. Literally, we’ll be there in about three months.), but we love each other magnificently, and we rejoice in that love. I know the day is coming when she’ll pack up and go away to college, work and whatever the world holds in store for her. When that day comes, she is welcome to pack up all the strapless, string-strapped, micro-mini, cropped, bedazzled, branded stuff she wants. I think she’ll make good choices and avoid most of those, but until that day comes, all I want is just a dress with sleeves and a hem that at least touches her knee.

The Care and Feeding of Blogs

I can't believe I've let an entire week lapse since last writing. I don't mean to go so long between posts, but work, home, family, cooking, unpacking, illness, death, life, etc. all just conspire to get in the way. If I take time to blog while I'm at home, I look around at the boxes I have yet to unpack and the floor I have yet to mop and the bathroom I have yet to organize and I feel guilty and lazy and worthless. If I try to sneak a few minutes at work to blog I look around at the work on my desk and my co-workers hammering away at their own assignments and I feel guilty. If I try to blog at the end of the day while Dear Daughter is up then I feel guilty for taking time away from her.

So, I'm reeling in guilt, trying to justify my need to write something, anything, if only to reassure myself that I have a connection with a world outside my immediate life. I read a lot of blogs pretty regularly. The kind that attract me are usually written by women, mostly other mothers, and a high percentage of those are homeschooling mothers. Some of the better blogs that match these criteria include Derfwad Manor, Fine Old Famly, SunshinyLiving, and Redneck Mother. I admire these women so much--not only do they haul out of bed every morning (this alone can be a trying chore for me some days), but they coax not just child, but CHILDREN (as in multiple, i.e., more than just one--although there are days when I swear Dear Daughter actually qualifies as more than one since I just feel surrounded by her) out of bed, feed them creative and nutritious meals, and then proceed to go about life, love and the business of acquiring knowledge (as opposed to mere education) in an organic and interesting way. These, and other formidable women inhabiting the blogosphere, manage to balance running a household; raising happy, healthy children, along with assorted livestock and pets; and at the end of the day write lengthy, interesting blog posts on an assortment of interesting topics as diverse as religion, politics, home life, what their kid pulled out of his pocket and the everyday minutiae that makes living so interesting..

I'm trying hard to not descend into a rant attempting to justify my life or cast aspersions on someone else's life. Given the opportunity, would I stay home and educate my daughter at home? You betcha. Do I cook? Yeah--and sometimes it's even good stuff. Do I wish my house was more organized and aesthetically pleasing? Well, maybe a little...just enough to be more comfortable having people over. Do I wish I had more time to write? Of course. I also wish I had more time to knit and unpack and hang out with my mom and teach my middle schooler how to ride a bicycle and to practice Scarlatti on the piano and teach my bunnies how to jump hurdles and so on...

I don't grudge these fascinating women their lives. I don't really dislike my own, for that matter. Maybe it's just a case of the grand ennui. I'm in a rebuilding phase. I'm rediscovering who and what I was before I let myself get lost in a long-term love affair. In my defense. I thought this was The One. I thought I could get comfortable and expand my idea of life, home and family. So, for three years, I muddled along thinking I was working towards a Happily Ever After. Turns out, of the six other people involved in it, I was the only adult who actually envisioned that happening.

So, here I am, back at home. Or at least, back at house. Despite having lived here for nearly five years before moving out, I'm still getting my head and heart around the concept that this is home. Of course, truth be told, I never honestly felt at "home" in the house we lived for the past year and a half. I tried to make it home, but you can only do so much with paint and shelf paper. No matter how many times you rearrange the furniture, if the hearts aren't there, it just isn't home.

I walked out in my backyard yesterday. It was an uncharacteristically warm day for February. It was a bit blustery and the ground is still boggy, but it was nice to walk around my own little piece of the world. I didn't see any bluebirds yet, but maybe once I get the garden retilled and the bronze irises come up and my gigantic Lady Banks rosebush blooms, it will start to feel more like home.

Get Yer Scorecards Here

Yesterday I attended a birthday party for a very dear little friend. Although the big day isn't actually until Wednesday, we celebrated the first birthday of Riley, the granddaughter of the Loved One, who although we no longer share the same space, is still very much cared for and loved in our hearts.

As first birthday parties go, it was fairly typical--crowded with adults and toddlers, lots of pink everywhere, and plenty of food. The birthday girl was rather uninterested in most of the proceedings. She needed a nap and the house was pretty crowded with lots of people making lots of noise. Still, when Dear Daughter and I came through the door, she laughed and toddled forward and relieved us of the bag we were carrying. It had bunnies on it, and she had a good time dragging it behind her.

The Loved One is back in Alaska, working, so it was somewhat awkward for us. This was our first encounter with his family since moving out. Naturally, there was a bit of confusion about how to introduce me to people ("This is Riley's dad's father's um, girlfriend, no, wait, um, ex-....ah. well,...um"). I just shook hands and said "Just call me Lalah. Riley does."

For the record, the guest list included the following: Riley's mother, Riley's father, Riley's father's new girlfriend (who is expecting in June). Riley's father's new girlfriend's dad (and his boyfriend), me (aka-Riley's father's dad's ex-girlfriend), Riley's grandmother (my ex-boyfriend's ex-wife), Riley's dad's stepfather, Riley's maternal grandmother, Riley's maternal grandfather (her grandmother's ex-husband), and Riley's mother's new ex-boyfriend.

Relationships and family used to be so simple. Contrary to appearances, I miss those days when parents and children all had the same last name and all lived in the same house, and at the same time. Actually, I know more couples and families for whom this is still true than not. I admire them and sometimes even have a little envy for them. I'm not good at this relationship thing. I try. I hope. I am always optimistic, but so far my average is pretty lousy.

Since Dear Daughter appeared in my life 12 years ago, I've kept a pretty stiff upper lip about it. She's had lots of questions about our family and why it's just the two of us, and I've always tried to answer them honestly and carefully. It hasn't been easy and we've both shed a few tears over the years about this.

Throughout it all, I've maintained the same position though. Family is blood, but it's also much more. We have so many wonderful friends who have, over the years, become very real extensions of our family. Luckily, we've discovered, family is so much more than just those with whom you share blood and DNA. It's the people who you co-op meals with, barter your hand-me-downs and extraneous furniture, you sing with them in church, you hold hands with at funerals, they yell at your kids, you pick up after theirs. You carpool with them, exchange recipes, crash on their couch, disagree with them about politics. You love them, you worry about them, they shake their heads silently over your latest relationship debacle.

For a while at the party I carried Riley around in my arms. I love that girl so much. She's so tiny and precious, and when she looks up at me and raises her hands for me to pick her up my heart almost bursts. We don't share anything except we're both hitching a ride on the same planet for a while. Still, she's my family, and that won't change, no matter what.