Dear Mom that man has no arms
Some trials of parenthood have no good answers. While reading Madaline there is a line “They smiled at the good and the frowned at the bad.” The picture of the bad is a crook stealing what is apparently a bag of money or something.
“What is that daddy?” She points to the bag of apparently money. “Why is he bad.”
“He just stole some money from someone who needs it very badly. He is a very bad man.” The obvious thing is he robbed a bank, but I have come to believe robbing a bank is really just poetic justice. I blame it on Cole Younger days and growing up next to a cave Jesse James slept in.
The next line is, “some times they were very, very sad.” There is a picture of a soldier with a broken leg. “How did he hurt his leg Daddy?”
“I am pretty sure he did not listen to his Daddy and climbed a tree when he wasn’t supposed to and broke it when he fell out.”
There seems to be a pattern here. She is inquisitive. She needs to know things. She questions what she does not know in a futile effort to accumulate all the knowledge in the world. Or maybe it is just that she is five.
As we were standing in line the other day she saw a man with no arms. “Daddy that man has no arms!”
“Why yes, you are right, he has no arms.” I knew when I said it this was not the end.
“What happened to his arms Daddy?” There it was. Do I treat this different than I usually do? Do I choose this moment to teach her what is appropriate subject matter while standing in a line? Do I know what is appropriate subject matter when standing in a line?
“I think he was not very careful while he was feeding the alligators.”
The other person I was in line with gasped. “Was that not sensitive enough?” I asked already knowing her opinion. Claire did not ask anymore questions about the man. She glanced at him a few times, but did not stare. I am guessing that she has a healthy fear of alligators at this point. It occurred to me I should have said, “He did not eat his carrots and his arms fell off.” Again probably not the right level of sensitivity considering the subject.
Years ago there was a girl in college that had sever burns over most of her body. Her face was completely scared. I had observed how no one talked to her. There were a few people who knew her and they did a good job of just pretending that nothing was wrong. I passed her a few times and I felt very self-conscious about not saying “Hi.” I over analyzed this and wondered if I was self-conscious because I would have said Hi to someone else if they were not burned or if there was some intrinsic discomfort that came with being around someone different. Deciding I needed to explore this internal turmoil I sat down with her in the student union one day.
“Hi, I’m Mike.” I pondered putting out my hand to shake, but thought if she were a hot cheerleader type I would not try to shake hands when I introduced myself.
“I’m Jennifer.” She answered. Her voice was sweet and even not at all what I had expected, but then I had no idea what to expect.
We talked for 15 minutes or so and I eventually asked her about the burns. She told me a house fire, which almost took her life, was the culprit. It happened when she was in her early teens and she had finished high school with the burns so was quite used to people being curious. I told her I thought it was better that I ask and get it out of the way then to wonder every time we passed in the hall and never say anything to her.
She agreed. We became acquaintances and even friends. I always said, “Hi Jennifer.” When we passed the hall and she would always say Hi back. I sat at her table many times when I came out of the cafeteria and was looking for a seat. On occasion I would see someone I knew pass by not looking at her they way I used to not look at her and I would call them over. “Hi, how you doing? Do you know Jennifer?” I would follow up with some other question to further my ruse of asking them over to the table. If I could I would get them to sit down and when possible pull Jennifer into the conversation.
Over time I noticed a few more people saying, “Hi Jennifer.” When they passed her in the hall. Years later when I had developed a habit of specifically avoiding avoiding people I realized the introductions were as much for the other people as they were for Jennifer. Jennifer deserved more friends and surely these people deserved to have an experience to help break down their own barriers.
Standing in line at the grocery store Claire noticed a little old lady in a wheel chair. “Why is she in that chair Daddy?” Remembering the man with no arms I pondered saying, “She ate too much candy,” or “that is what happens when you do not wear your helmet.” Instead I took a different approach.
“I don’t know, lets ask her.” I turned to the woman. “Excuse me, my daughter and I were wondering why you are in that chair?” I knelt beside Claire with my arm around her which put her in an uncomfortable position of being front and center of the conversation, but not so far in she could not be comforted by her Daddy’s arm around her shoulder.
At first the woman acted a little startled. She looked at Claire and smiled broadly. “You are so cute.” She reached out with a delicate hand but could not quite reach her and Claire was not quite up to getting any closer. “I got old.” She said. “I can’t walk around like I used to and this chair helps me do my shopping.”
“Don’t ever get old.” She added. Claire did not talk through this but glanced up at me a few times as if to say, “uhh, can we leave now?”
I am thinking that a few more of these introductions and she will get the hang of it. I don’t want her to be uncomfortably inquisitive but I do want her to avoid avoiding things. I believe it is healthy to ask questions such as these just as you might say, “where did you get that jacket?” or “that is a nice color of fingernail polish.”
There is a balance she must learn. It is not the same to tell someone they are stunningly beautiful as it is to tell them their disfigurement is grotesque. I hope I have set a good enough example to teach her the difference.
In the mean time I am hoping she does not ask any one armed men how their alligators are doing.
Love Mike
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
Dear Mom so this is what Christmas was like
Dear Mom so this is what Christmas was like
That first Christmas together or should I say that first Christmas Claire and I spent alone together. She arrived home on Christmas Eve. She was far too tired to worry about presents and perhaps too young to fully understand the significance of the night before Christmas. I put her in her jammies and tucked her into bed. I sang a few choice lullabies, though they were completely unnecessary, she was already asleep. They were not for her. They were for me. I had just spent my very first Christmas Eve alone. She was back and everything was right with the world.
The presents were wrapped, check! The toys from Santa were out, check! There were goodies in the stockings, check! The carrots and cookies were eaten with a commensurate amount of crumbs left on the plate to make it look real, check! The camera was ready with fresh batteries. I went to sleep that night, peacefully, looking forward to Christmas morning.
When I opened my eyes Claire had not yet woken up. I toyed with the idea of waking her, then decided to let her sleep, I rechecked everything I had checked off the night before and decided to go play a computer game. It was almost 10:00 before she came into the computer room. Sleepy eyed in her little footy pjs. Carrying a teddy bear and seeking some serious snuggling time. I hoisted her up into my lap and she nestled her head against my shoulder and I though she would fall back to sleep for a moment.
“Did Santa come?” The little voice, almost a whisper, was not filled with surprise or excitement, it was just a question like, “Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know?” I answered, “maybe we should go check?”
With as much excitement as I could express I carried her down the stairs and gasped at the Christmas tree. She wiggled to be released from my grasp and pranced toward the tree as only a toddler can do. I pointed at the plate on the coffee table, “Look, he ate all the cookies!” I might as well kept that to myself, she was busy picking up presents.
We sat down beside the tree and started opening presents. She was awkward but dedicated. Little by little the paper came off the packages. I tried to catch every gasp and smile on camera but they were short and quick. No sooner had she opened one present she reached for another. As she reached for her fifth present she looked over at me. “Where are you presents Daddy?”
There was suddenly a silence in the room I could feel. I stared blankly at her for a moment while I thought of something to say. Where were my presents? I had no parents to give me presents, my ex-wife was surely not giving me anything. My grandmas had stopped sending me stuff years ago.
With wisdom far beyond her years and a sympathy that I did not even know her small frame was capable she handed me the present in her hand and said, “Here Daddy you can have one of mine.”
I reached over and pulled her into my arms. Tears welled in my eyes as I hugged my dear sweet daughter. “You are so sweet.” I told her, “Let’s have some breakfast before we finish opening presents.”
I am sure she would have preferred to continue with the presents but unknowledgeable of the actual tradition or events of Christmas she went along with it. I put her in her highchair and got out some cereal and some milk in her cup. Then I palmed the roll of tape, a pair of scissors and hid a roll of wrapping paper behind my back and dashed up stairs. Grabbing a pair of socks, an old CD, and a few other things within reach I quickly wrapped some presents. Peaking down the stairs she was intent on eating her cereal and watching the cartoons on TV. I snuck behind her and placed the packages on the floor next to the tree. When we had finished eating I suggested we sit back down and finish opening presents.
With great surprise and excitement I pulled over the heretofore unseen gifts. I announced, “My turn.” And opened up a pair of socks. “These are my favorite.” I exclaimed. “Your turn.” I told her and she reached for another present.
“Is this one mine or yours Daddy?” She held it up and waited for me to answer. “That one is yours Sweety.”
How many times had you wrapped a present for yourself just so you would have something to open at Christmas? How many times had you rushed up the stairs, or gone around the corner or sheltered my young eyes from something that was going to make me sad? How many times had you pretended nothing was wrong when the rent was late or the water bill was due?
The night before as I spent my very first Christmas Eve alone I felt such sorry for my dear sweet mother who, had all those years ago, sat at home and waited for her children to return. I was certain it was one of my saddest moments. Now it became clear to me it was only a shadow compared to the feeling of waking up Christmas morning and not having a present under the tree.
Claire sat nestled in my lap as we opened boxes, took apart packaging and explored her new treasures. She vacillated between presents trying to decide which one needed her attention most at that moment. Choosing carefully which was to be her favorite, which she would take to bed that night. She picked up a small teddy bear and gave it a big hug. She set it down and turned around. Climbing a little higher in my lap she wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and hugged me. “Thank you Daddy,” she said, “You are the best present ever.” I do not know if it was a slip of the tongue. I do not know if she meant to say something else. It seemed to only make sense in a context I thought only I could see. “No,” I said, “YOU are the best present ever.”
Merry Christmas Mom,
Love Mike
That first Christmas together or should I say that first Christmas Claire and I spent alone together. She arrived home on Christmas Eve. She was far too tired to worry about presents and perhaps too young to fully understand the significance of the night before Christmas. I put her in her jammies and tucked her into bed. I sang a few choice lullabies, though they were completely unnecessary, she was already asleep. They were not for her. They were for me. I had just spent my very first Christmas Eve alone. She was back and everything was right with the world.
The presents were wrapped, check! The toys from Santa were out, check! There were goodies in the stockings, check! The carrots and cookies were eaten with a commensurate amount of crumbs left on the plate to make it look real, check! The camera was ready with fresh batteries. I went to sleep that night, peacefully, looking forward to Christmas morning.
When I opened my eyes Claire had not yet woken up. I toyed with the idea of waking her, then decided to let her sleep, I rechecked everything I had checked off the night before and decided to go play a computer game. It was almost 10:00 before she came into the computer room. Sleepy eyed in her little footy pjs. Carrying a teddy bear and seeking some serious snuggling time. I hoisted her up into my lap and she nestled her head against my shoulder and I though she would fall back to sleep for a moment.
“Did Santa come?” The little voice, almost a whisper, was not filled with surprise or excitement, it was just a question like, “Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know?” I answered, “maybe we should go check?”
With as much excitement as I could express I carried her down the stairs and gasped at the Christmas tree. She wiggled to be released from my grasp and pranced toward the tree as only a toddler can do. I pointed at the plate on the coffee table, “Look, he ate all the cookies!” I might as well kept that to myself, she was busy picking up presents.
We sat down beside the tree and started opening presents. She was awkward but dedicated. Little by little the paper came off the packages. I tried to catch every gasp and smile on camera but they were short and quick. No sooner had she opened one present she reached for another. As she reached for her fifth present she looked over at me. “Where are you presents Daddy?”
There was suddenly a silence in the room I could feel. I stared blankly at her for a moment while I thought of something to say. Where were my presents? I had no parents to give me presents, my ex-wife was surely not giving me anything. My grandmas had stopped sending me stuff years ago.
With wisdom far beyond her years and a sympathy that I did not even know her small frame was capable she handed me the present in her hand and said, “Here Daddy you can have one of mine.”
I reached over and pulled her into my arms. Tears welled in my eyes as I hugged my dear sweet daughter. “You are so sweet.” I told her, “Let’s have some breakfast before we finish opening presents.”
I am sure she would have preferred to continue with the presents but unknowledgeable of the actual tradition or events of Christmas she went along with it. I put her in her highchair and got out some cereal and some milk in her cup. Then I palmed the roll of tape, a pair of scissors and hid a roll of wrapping paper behind my back and dashed up stairs. Grabbing a pair of socks, an old CD, and a few other things within reach I quickly wrapped some presents. Peaking down the stairs she was intent on eating her cereal and watching the cartoons on TV. I snuck behind her and placed the packages on the floor next to the tree. When we had finished eating I suggested we sit back down and finish opening presents.
With great surprise and excitement I pulled over the heretofore unseen gifts. I announced, “My turn.” And opened up a pair of socks. “These are my favorite.” I exclaimed. “Your turn.” I told her and she reached for another present.
“Is this one mine or yours Daddy?” She held it up and waited for me to answer. “That one is yours Sweety.”
How many times had you wrapped a present for yourself just so you would have something to open at Christmas? How many times had you rushed up the stairs, or gone around the corner or sheltered my young eyes from something that was going to make me sad? How many times had you pretended nothing was wrong when the rent was late or the water bill was due?
The night before as I spent my very first Christmas Eve alone I felt such sorry for my dear sweet mother who, had all those years ago, sat at home and waited for her children to return. I was certain it was one of my saddest moments. Now it became clear to me it was only a shadow compared to the feeling of waking up Christmas morning and not having a present under the tree.
Claire sat nestled in my lap as we opened boxes, took apart packaging and explored her new treasures. She vacillated between presents trying to decide which one needed her attention most at that moment. Choosing carefully which was to be her favorite, which she would take to bed that night. She picked up a small teddy bear and gave it a big hug. She set it down and turned around. Climbing a little higher in my lap she wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and hugged me. “Thank you Daddy,” she said, “You are the best present ever.” I do not know if it was a slip of the tongue. I do not know if she meant to say something else. It seemed to only make sense in a context I thought only I could see. “No,” I said, “YOU are the best present ever.”
Merry Christmas Mom,
Love Mike
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Dear Mom it is Christmas Eve already
Dear Mom it is Christmas Eve already
When I was young I spent every Christmas Eve with my Dad. Coming from a broken family earns you an entire set of traditions all your own. My sister and I would go over to my grandparents house and do the whole dinner/gift thing. I spent Christmas Eve in the very same house with the very same people for 30 years. When I got divorced my Ex accommodated me by extending this tradition to my daughter. Christmas Eve with her Mom then Christmas morning waking up with her Dad.
My Dad would pick me up and I would hug and kiss you, say Merry Christmas and head out over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house. There we would chew on a candy cane eat some Christmas cookies hug relatives you only see twice a year and wait for dinner. Grandma made the greatest dinners. There were certain things you could always count on. Mashed potatoes and corn, I like them both, next to each other on the plate with lots of butter. Hot rolls right out of the oven smothered with butter, sprinkled with honey. I have tried many rolls since but I have never found rolls just like those.
To this day I still keep a good supply of honey in the house. Not because I use it often, but because of the memories it pulls up. Claire has often declared toast and honey as one of her favorite breakfasts. I wonder what she will remember about honey? The regular dishes were there but I could fill up on mashed potatoes and corn. The only reason to leave any room in your stomach was for pie. My grandfather loved pie. No occasion was finished until you broke out the pie. To this day if I eat pumpkin, apple, rhubarb, pecan or peach pie the standard I use to measure them is grandma’s pie.
After dinner we would open presents. When I was young that meant a present from everyone there. Later years we drew names, which made it much easier. Hopefully someone got a game or something so we would not be bored once the gifts were gone. And there was always the requisite number of sweaters, scarves and new socks.
When I arrived home you would be there. The TV would be on, often a bottle of wine open in the kitchen. You would hug us and ask us what we got. We would break open our presents and show you the cool or pretty lame gifts. In later years there was much laughter to be had, teasing our absent relatives about their choice of gifts.
There were years when I was older I knew you were going out with someone, friends, a boy friend or a party somewhere. I always felt better if I knew you were out. I didn’t want you to spend Christmas Eve alone.
When my Ex picked up Claire that very first Christmas apart I suddenly had a new respect for what you had gone through. I was alone in the house on Christmas Eve. I had not planned anything. I needed to be home later when Claire was dropped off. I opened up a bottle of wine, broke out some cheese and crackers, turned on I’ts a Wonderful Life and settled in for a nice evening at home. Sitting in my chair in front of the Christmas tree I tried to treat it like any other evening without my daughter. But I could not. I kept remembering you waving goodbye as we got in Dad’s truck.
I knew what you went through then, and you did a great job of not letting your kids know exactly what it felt like. But as I faced the epiphany of exactly what was going through your mind it was different. I felt a little selfish. Why had I not done more when I had the chance? You would just remind me I was the kid and you were the parent. Some burdens are not for kids to carry. However the saddest part of the whole event was not that I was sad for myself. Though I was certain this might have been one of the saddest moments in my life. But I was sad for a mother staying at home alone, all those years ago.
We had some great times through the years. You would think it was good enough times to make up for any number of Christmas Eves alone. But at that moment, none of those other moments mattered.
Love Mike
When I was young I spent every Christmas Eve with my Dad. Coming from a broken family earns you an entire set of traditions all your own. My sister and I would go over to my grandparents house and do the whole dinner/gift thing. I spent Christmas Eve in the very same house with the very same people for 30 years. When I got divorced my Ex accommodated me by extending this tradition to my daughter. Christmas Eve with her Mom then Christmas morning waking up with her Dad.
My Dad would pick me up and I would hug and kiss you, say Merry Christmas and head out over the river and through the woods to grandma’s house. There we would chew on a candy cane eat some Christmas cookies hug relatives you only see twice a year and wait for dinner. Grandma made the greatest dinners. There were certain things you could always count on. Mashed potatoes and corn, I like them both, next to each other on the plate with lots of butter. Hot rolls right out of the oven smothered with butter, sprinkled with honey. I have tried many rolls since but I have never found rolls just like those.
To this day I still keep a good supply of honey in the house. Not because I use it often, but because of the memories it pulls up. Claire has often declared toast and honey as one of her favorite breakfasts. I wonder what she will remember about honey? The regular dishes were there but I could fill up on mashed potatoes and corn. The only reason to leave any room in your stomach was for pie. My grandfather loved pie. No occasion was finished until you broke out the pie. To this day if I eat pumpkin, apple, rhubarb, pecan or peach pie the standard I use to measure them is grandma’s pie.
After dinner we would open presents. When I was young that meant a present from everyone there. Later years we drew names, which made it much easier. Hopefully someone got a game or something so we would not be bored once the gifts were gone. And there was always the requisite number of sweaters, scarves and new socks.
When I arrived home you would be there. The TV would be on, often a bottle of wine open in the kitchen. You would hug us and ask us what we got. We would break open our presents and show you the cool or pretty lame gifts. In later years there was much laughter to be had, teasing our absent relatives about their choice of gifts.
There were years when I was older I knew you were going out with someone, friends, a boy friend or a party somewhere. I always felt better if I knew you were out. I didn’t want you to spend Christmas Eve alone.
When my Ex picked up Claire that very first Christmas apart I suddenly had a new respect for what you had gone through. I was alone in the house on Christmas Eve. I had not planned anything. I needed to be home later when Claire was dropped off. I opened up a bottle of wine, broke out some cheese and crackers, turned on I’ts a Wonderful Life and settled in for a nice evening at home. Sitting in my chair in front of the Christmas tree I tried to treat it like any other evening without my daughter. But I could not. I kept remembering you waving goodbye as we got in Dad’s truck.
I knew what you went through then, and you did a great job of not letting your kids know exactly what it felt like. But as I faced the epiphany of exactly what was going through your mind it was different. I felt a little selfish. Why had I not done more when I had the chance? You would just remind me I was the kid and you were the parent. Some burdens are not for kids to carry. However the saddest part of the whole event was not that I was sad for myself. Though I was certain this might have been one of the saddest moments in my life. But I was sad for a mother staying at home alone, all those years ago.
We had some great times through the years. You would think it was good enough times to make up for any number of Christmas Eves alone. But at that moment, none of those other moments mattered.
Love Mike
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Dear Mom the cookies smell great
Dear Mom the cookies smell great
As Christmas approaches Claire is busy making everything perfect for Santa Clause. She has drawn him a picture. She has made him a special note. After much consternation over the subject she has decided we need to put the note over the top of the cookies to make sure he sees it. She has insured our stocking are hung. She has made special care we have fresh milk and carrots in the fridge. I suggested we have some carrots for dinner and she insisted we need to save them for the reindeer. I am not completely sure that is her sole motivation, carrots have never been her favorite, but it is Christmas so we can go with it. She asked me, “Daddy if I have some cereal and milk will we have enough milk left for Santa?”
I assured her there was plenty of milk for Santa. I am not sure, but I think for a minutes she was contemplating using water on her cereal. She kept glancing at the faucet as if she were going over her options. Being a big girl now she can pour her own milk over her cereal. I only get the half-gallon size containers. She hesitated several times and analyzed the container to make sure she had not used too much. This would have been less funny if it was not a full container. But it was, in fact, brand new. I guess she suspects Santa is very thirsty.
The one thing that has been missing is cookies. Starting about a week ago she started suggesting we make cookies for Santa. I had not picked up ingredients at the store last time and decided we needed to put it off a bit.
“We need to make sure we have cookies for Santa!” She exclaimed. She is obviously going to grow up to be a big tipper.
“Don’t worry honey, we will have plenty of cookies for Santa.”
As she goes over her list she keeps coming back to the one thing that she cannot check off yet. When are we going to make cookies? I suppose I should have just bit the bullet and jumped in the car and went and bought some more eggs. This would have been easier. But, now there was a line in the sand and I though patience was a good lesson here.
I picked out a date and a time and kept reminding her that was when we were going to make the cookies. There were ornaments to make, Christmas cards to make, more decorations to put up, but it all came back to the cookies. “Can we make the cookies now?” She would ask at the end of every project, or sometimes in the middle of one.
“What day is on the calendar?” I would ask, realizing she knew exactly what day it was, but was just interested in testing to see if I remembered.
Now it is the day before Christmas Eve and I have it all planned out. The ingredients sit on the counter. The cookie sheets sit on the stove top ready to be greased. Now I just wait for the little girl to come home from visiting her Mother. I imagine we can do the cookies then do clean up and it will likely be time for a bath. Oh how I wish my kitchen did not have carpet. It is funny but it is taking great willpower not to make the cookies myself. So, first I need patience for my daughter’s nagging, now I need patience to wait for her to get home. This whole process is trying my patience. When I planned this I did not realize the lesson in patience was for me.
Love Mike
As Christmas approaches Claire is busy making everything perfect for Santa Clause. She has drawn him a picture. She has made him a special note. After much consternation over the subject she has decided we need to put the note over the top of the cookies to make sure he sees it. She has insured our stocking are hung. She has made special care we have fresh milk and carrots in the fridge. I suggested we have some carrots for dinner and she insisted we need to save them for the reindeer. I am not completely sure that is her sole motivation, carrots have never been her favorite, but it is Christmas so we can go with it. She asked me, “Daddy if I have some cereal and milk will we have enough milk left for Santa?”
I assured her there was plenty of milk for Santa. I am not sure, but I think for a minutes she was contemplating using water on her cereal. She kept glancing at the faucet as if she were going over her options. Being a big girl now she can pour her own milk over her cereal. I only get the half-gallon size containers. She hesitated several times and analyzed the container to make sure she had not used too much. This would have been less funny if it was not a full container. But it was, in fact, brand new. I guess she suspects Santa is very thirsty.
The one thing that has been missing is cookies. Starting about a week ago she started suggesting we make cookies for Santa. I had not picked up ingredients at the store last time and decided we needed to put it off a bit.
“We need to make sure we have cookies for Santa!” She exclaimed. She is obviously going to grow up to be a big tipper.
“Don’t worry honey, we will have plenty of cookies for Santa.”
As she goes over her list she keeps coming back to the one thing that she cannot check off yet. When are we going to make cookies? I suppose I should have just bit the bullet and jumped in the car and went and bought some more eggs. This would have been easier. But, now there was a line in the sand and I though patience was a good lesson here.
I picked out a date and a time and kept reminding her that was when we were going to make the cookies. There were ornaments to make, Christmas cards to make, more decorations to put up, but it all came back to the cookies. “Can we make the cookies now?” She would ask at the end of every project, or sometimes in the middle of one.
“What day is on the calendar?” I would ask, realizing she knew exactly what day it was, but was just interested in testing to see if I remembered.
Now it is the day before Christmas Eve and I have it all planned out. The ingredients sit on the counter. The cookie sheets sit on the stove top ready to be greased. Now I just wait for the little girl to come home from visiting her Mother. I imagine we can do the cookies then do clean up and it will likely be time for a bath. Oh how I wish my kitchen did not have carpet. It is funny but it is taking great willpower not to make the cookies myself. So, first I need patience for my daughter’s nagging, now I need patience to wait for her to get home. This whole process is trying my patience. When I planned this I did not realize the lesson in patience was for me.
Love Mike
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Dear Mom it is too late we already told Santa
Dear Mom it is too late we already told Santa
There are few things more wonderful than watching a little girl marvel at Christmas. Claire has gone through all the normal questions. How does Santa go everywhere in one night? How does Santa get in your house if you don’t have a chimney? I am dreading the day when some kid tries to tell her there is not Santa Claus and I have to figure out a way to break it to her that her father has been lying to her for years. I am torn at which will be worse. The look of disappointment in her face that there is no Santa or the look of disappointment that her Daddy could betray her.
“What? No Santa, I suppose the Tooth Fairy is fake too?” It will not be a good day.
Last week we made our annual pilgrimage to visit Saint Nicholas in his natural environment, the mall.
I had tried to get Claire to dress up in a new fancy dress, but she insisted on wearing something red. It was not her best shirt and had seen better days but it was clean and I gave up arguing with her. “Okay this time you pick out the shirt, next time it is my turn.” This worked with vegetables too. It also worked on Saturday morning. “Okay you pick out the show we want to watch this morning and I will pick out a show this evening.” Thus, cartoons only lasted till I wanted to watch TV.
It was the Saturday before Christmas and Crown Center was busy. Not that I expected to squeak in when no one was there, I suppose I should have gone sooner, or tried the Santa at Bass Pro Shop or something, anything. The line looked like it was going to be an hour or more. It was in fact an hour and a half. The line wound around the escalators, past several shops and ended in Crayola Land. A magical place where you must take off your shoes but are still not allowed to climb on the Crayola cabin. You could slide on the Crayola box lid but must stay off the oversize blocks.
Claire played while Daddy stood in the final line. As I moved close she sensed the ensuing event and came to stand beside me and put her shoes back on.
“Is that the real Santa?” She looked toward the Santa. He was a pretty good Santa as far as looks go. He had a real beard, which he had groomed for years. Reading spectacles adorned the end of his nose and he seemed altogether jolly.
“Yup, it sure is.” I assured her.
She stared at him for a moment then turned to the girl running the camera as she stared at a computer screen cropping the latest photo. “Is that the real Santa?” She pointed at the Santaesque man in the chair. I guess my word was just not quite enough. But somehow this girl, who was obviously on the Jolly Old Elf’s payroll, was going to be an authority. The camera girl reassured her. “Yes, that is the real Santa, all the way from the North pole.”
This seemed to satisfy her.
I was a little concerned she would be nervous.
“Daddy can you be in the picture too?” It is much easier to sit on a stranger’s lap if your Daddy is there too.
Last year she almost didn’t sit on his lap. Either she was much bolder this year or this Santa was all together more friendly.
“Hi Santa.” I said as we walked up.
“Hello there.” He answered. It was his real voice, no north pole accent for this Santa. Sounded like he was from mid to Southern Missouri. Not quite the boot heal but South of I 70. Claire popped up on his knee with no problem at all. I saddled up on the other side and smiled for the camera.
As I got up to walk around to the other side Santa asked, “So, what do you want for Christmas?”
“I want a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” This was not what we had rehearsed. Where were the Barbie dolls, the Legos? For the last month we had assembled a list. Now at the moment of truth she springs this.
“What else do you want?” A good Santa indeed, let’s get something else on the list.
“Just a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” Admittedly this was not a red rider BB gun but I was not happy about the choice. First of all she is five and cannot even ride her bike yet without training wheels. A skate board? Second of all, I don’t recall ever seeing this ad on the TV. Where was I going to find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt. What is the use of subjecting our kids to endless commercials of brightly colored overpriced childhood accessories if she was not even going to put one on her list? The Toy industry had let me down. Third, it was December and the wind chill was ten below zero, she would not even be able to use it for four more months. Fourth, if you were going to only ask for one thing, why not world peace?
“Okay,” said Santa, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Claire jumped down as I paid for our 5 x 7 photo. She was feeling pretty proud at this point. We walked out of the Crayola land and set out toward the gingerbread village. It was indeed a gingerbread village, but not at all impressive. Too many pastry shows on the food channel had set the bar too high for the average gingerbread village developer.
After a sojourn through the Crayola shop and a search for a cookie shop we were finally on our way home. “Maybe Santa will bring you something else, do you think that would be okay?”
“No, Santa, is pretty good about these things Dad.”
I knew I was reaching but I was trying to set up the Christmas morning to be something other than a disappointment.
“Well, what else do you want beside a skate board?” I pressed for more information.
“A skate board with a purple lightning bolt,” she corrected me, “besides it is too late Daddy, we already told Santa.”
She was right. There was no way out of this. The path was clear. Either I find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt or I accept that she is going to start doubting Santa right now. On the other hand if I do find a skate board it would go along way to convince her there is a Santa when someone try’s to tell her there is not. I may get another year out this? That is, if I find a skate board with a purple lighting bolt.
It occurred to me that a skate board must also come with the requisite elbow and knee pads. We already had a helmet. Plus, I was fairly certain the skate board fad would last about as long as it took her to fall off the first time, I give it 15 seconds. What about the mystery of Christmas? The wonder of the season? The magic in a child’s eyes as they rush downstairs Christmas morning?
Clearly, there were conflicting goals here that would weigh heavily on my mind for the next week.
Love Mike
There are few things more wonderful than watching a little girl marvel at Christmas. Claire has gone through all the normal questions. How does Santa go everywhere in one night? How does Santa get in your house if you don’t have a chimney? I am dreading the day when some kid tries to tell her there is not Santa Claus and I have to figure out a way to break it to her that her father has been lying to her for years. I am torn at which will be worse. The look of disappointment in her face that there is no Santa or the look of disappointment that her Daddy could betray her.
“What? No Santa, I suppose the Tooth Fairy is fake too?” It will not be a good day.
Last week we made our annual pilgrimage to visit Saint Nicholas in his natural environment, the mall.
I had tried to get Claire to dress up in a new fancy dress, but she insisted on wearing something red. It was not her best shirt and had seen better days but it was clean and I gave up arguing with her. “Okay this time you pick out the shirt, next time it is my turn.” This worked with vegetables too. It also worked on Saturday morning. “Okay you pick out the show we want to watch this morning and I will pick out a show this evening.” Thus, cartoons only lasted till I wanted to watch TV.
It was the Saturday before Christmas and Crown Center was busy. Not that I expected to squeak in when no one was there, I suppose I should have gone sooner, or tried the Santa at Bass Pro Shop or something, anything. The line looked like it was going to be an hour or more. It was in fact an hour and a half. The line wound around the escalators, past several shops and ended in Crayola Land. A magical place where you must take off your shoes but are still not allowed to climb on the Crayola cabin. You could slide on the Crayola box lid but must stay off the oversize blocks.
Claire played while Daddy stood in the final line. As I moved close she sensed the ensuing event and came to stand beside me and put her shoes back on.
“Is that the real Santa?” She looked toward the Santa. He was a pretty good Santa as far as looks go. He had a real beard, which he had groomed for years. Reading spectacles adorned the end of his nose and he seemed altogether jolly.
“Yup, it sure is.” I assured her.
She stared at him for a moment then turned to the girl running the camera as she stared at a computer screen cropping the latest photo. “Is that the real Santa?” She pointed at the Santaesque man in the chair. I guess my word was just not quite enough. But somehow this girl, who was obviously on the Jolly Old Elf’s payroll, was going to be an authority. The camera girl reassured her. “Yes, that is the real Santa, all the way from the North pole.”
This seemed to satisfy her.
I was a little concerned she would be nervous.
“Daddy can you be in the picture too?” It is much easier to sit on a stranger’s lap if your Daddy is there too.
Last year she almost didn’t sit on his lap. Either she was much bolder this year or this Santa was all together more friendly.
“Hi Santa.” I said as we walked up.
“Hello there.” He answered. It was his real voice, no north pole accent for this Santa. Sounded like he was from mid to Southern Missouri. Not quite the boot heal but South of I 70. Claire popped up on his knee with no problem at all. I saddled up on the other side and smiled for the camera.
As I got up to walk around to the other side Santa asked, “So, what do you want for Christmas?”
“I want a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” This was not what we had rehearsed. Where were the Barbie dolls, the Legos? For the last month we had assembled a list. Now at the moment of truth she springs this.
“What else do you want?” A good Santa indeed, let’s get something else on the list.
“Just a skate board with a purple lightning bolt.” Admittedly this was not a red rider BB gun but I was not happy about the choice. First of all she is five and cannot even ride her bike yet without training wheels. A skate board? Second of all, I don’t recall ever seeing this ad on the TV. Where was I going to find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt. What is the use of subjecting our kids to endless commercials of brightly colored overpriced childhood accessories if she was not even going to put one on her list? The Toy industry had let me down. Third, it was December and the wind chill was ten below zero, she would not even be able to use it for four more months. Fourth, if you were going to only ask for one thing, why not world peace?
“Okay,” said Santa, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Claire jumped down as I paid for our 5 x 7 photo. She was feeling pretty proud at this point. We walked out of the Crayola land and set out toward the gingerbread village. It was indeed a gingerbread village, but not at all impressive. Too many pastry shows on the food channel had set the bar too high for the average gingerbread village developer.
After a sojourn through the Crayola shop and a search for a cookie shop we were finally on our way home. “Maybe Santa will bring you something else, do you think that would be okay?”
“No, Santa, is pretty good about these things Dad.”
I knew I was reaching but I was trying to set up the Christmas morning to be something other than a disappointment.
“Well, what else do you want beside a skate board?” I pressed for more information.
“A skate board with a purple lightning bolt,” she corrected me, “besides it is too late Daddy, we already told Santa.”
She was right. There was no way out of this. The path was clear. Either I find a skate board with a purple lightning bolt or I accept that she is going to start doubting Santa right now. On the other hand if I do find a skate board it would go along way to convince her there is a Santa when someone try’s to tell her there is not. I may get another year out this? That is, if I find a skate board with a purple lighting bolt.
It occurred to me that a skate board must also come with the requisite elbow and knee pads. We already had a helmet. Plus, I was fairly certain the skate board fad would last about as long as it took her to fall off the first time, I give it 15 seconds. What about the mystery of Christmas? The wonder of the season? The magic in a child’s eyes as they rush downstairs Christmas morning?
Clearly, there were conflicting goals here that would weigh heavily on my mind for the next week.
Love Mike
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