Stuart Is In Party Mode?

 Stuart is a minion.  A one-eyed cute as a button little minion in blue overalls.  He belongs to my cousin’s daughter, thus he is my cousin’s grand minion, and I supposed that makes him my first-cousin-minion-twice-removed.  He appears in photos on tropical vacations, and in everyday happenings around the house, restaurants, bars etc. and today he was all dressed up for Christmas sitting under the tree at my cousin’s house.  He is apparently in party mode, and I am reading the updates on Facebook about how he is behaving.  We are currently discussing what he would look like in lederhosen, singing in German…

Why on earth am I telling you this?  Because it makes me smile.  It’s a simple silly thing and it makes me smile and wish I had thought of it myself.  My cousin’s daughter has always been the life of the party.  She’s the person you just want to hug. She makes the room brighter just by being in it.  So it’s understandable that her little minion would take after her in that respect.

But more seriously, it reminded me of the little things that stand out in a day sometimes in the midst of turmoil and confusion, the unexpected things that make a difference.

I didn’t know when I left home this morning with my heavy heart, fighting off a germ of some kind, exhausted from lack of sleep in hopes of merely surviving the first of many “new normal” Christmases with my husband now in long term care, that I would encounter unexpected things that might have been little on someone’s scale of a day, but for me were big things.

I was counselled and given some thought provoking advice in a conversation which progressed beyond anything I had intended, and it made me look at some things I have been trying to block out.  This sweet lady has a way of bringing out things that have been building up in me and calling them as she sees them, with a lot of love in her heart.  She asked me straight out what it is that I’m expecting God to do that will make things OK before I stop being angry.  And I had no answer, because I’ve been asking myself the same question and I don’t know. 

Then I stopped in at my favourite store and was surprised with a special Christmas package of goodies just for me, with a beautiful note inside.  Apparently when I go in to enjoy their company and some peaceful “me time” browsing for inspiration and supplies for my next project, I make them smile.  Their kindness made me cry and I went to my van thinking about how my day started and how it was changing.

When I stopped in at my mom’s tonight, she told me to check in the garage because “Santa” had dropped off a couple of items for my workshop.  I opened the garage to find a router and a scroll saw gifted to me from a long time family friend who wanted to help me out by sharing his extra tools.

I thought about how I felt when today started, and how I felt after so much kindness had come my way from different places in a matter of a few hours, and I said a prayer of thanks.  Then I thought about what it was that I was expecting God to do that would make things OK before I stopped being angry.  And I realized that maybe it isn’t something HE needs to do. 

 

So if Stuart is in party mode, drinking wine and dancing around the Christmas tree, then maybe that’s where I should be too, and whatever our “new normal” Christmas is going to be this year, I want to have just as much fun as he does.

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George Bailey gets his own angel?

It’s a wonderful movie with a wonderful message and a wonderful ending.  It has well known characters dear to our hearts and gives us the reminder that no matter how bad things get, we’re all still important to the world around us.  And it used to be our family classic movie selection during the holiday season, generally on Christmas Eve.  We own it.   But a few years back we decided to put aside “It’s a Wonderful Life” for a movie more in line with our family celebrations, mishaps, and realities, because none of us have ever had a visit from an angel. 

Enter the Griswold family Christmas. 

That’s what we call it in our house – our Christmas, not the movie – in fact we use that line for many things, like the Griswold family picture, or the Griswolds go to Edmonton etc.  It’s fitting, especially once something has gone wrong.  It wasn’t enough that the original Vacation movie brought to the big screen the many real life issues faced on a family trip and turned what were simple disagreements, annoyances, and unexpected circumstances into a blockbuster hit that so many families could relate to in one way or another.

There just had to be a Christmas Vacation version, packed with the saga of

hanging the lights, a Christmas bonus on the line after overspending, and the big family get together including certain dreaded relatives, some invited, some just showing up – the embarrassing ones, that no one really wants to introduce to a newcomer.  Of course, the exaggerations are what make it funny, but there’s a little bit of that Christmas disaster that helps many of us feel like it’s OK if things don’t turn out quite the way we planned. The Griswolds are a family we can relate to and they help us laugh at ourselves.  And seriously, don’t we all feel a little bit sad for Clark when the lights don’t work?

I learned long ago that Norman Rockwell’s Christmas existed only in paintings, sentimental movies, the Cleaver family, and perhaps the homes of very rich people with servants who made sure that every light bulb evenly spaced on a garland packed winding staircase shone, blinked or flashed according to plan, that the turkey was roasted to perfection and served precisely at the moment when everyone was dressed and seated to watch Father-Knows-Best carve it into thin succulent pieces you could slice with a fork.  But I wouldn’t know for sure about the rich part.

Our Christmas dinner growing up consisted of turkey, stuffing, potatoes, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce – JELLIED ONLY – and gravy.  It never varied and we liked it that way.  But that was as Rockwell as it got.  Our dinner was “timed” based on the games we were playing all day and once the competition closest to a reasonable supper time came to an end – and not a minute before – my mom carved the turkey (gasp!) on the counter before it was served on the platter carefully with distinct sections for white and dark meat because each of us had a definite preference.  Dad never carved anything unless he was guilted into it, and then it became a form of entertainment, as did anything involving my dad.
 
Once I was married and we spent a few Christmas Days like the walking dead after being up until 4 am the night before (midnight Mass) we moved our Christmas dinner to Boxing Day because we all preferred to snack and relax and no one really appreciated a big supper – I didn’t feel like cooking it and the rest of my family didn’t feel like eating it.  The kids didn’t like the pressure of having to forego or at least limit their enjoyment of treats only prepared at holiday time because supper was coming. I wonder if the Cleavers ever considered that?  My dad wasn’t pleased at first with such a monumental change, but he eventually either mellowed or simply gave up the fight because he got used to it.  
 
We always liked to cook the biggest bird we could find because the leftovers were awesome.  I used to be able to eat turkey for a week.  Then one day I realized I was done, I was tired of it.  I liked the first meal and had no desire for a sandwich the next day. WHAT?  how did that happen?  I didn’t hate it, I just didn’t love it anymore (sorry Rockwell). So the birds got smaller and we froze leftovers and pulled them out sometime before Easter when the next turkey came along.
 

Enter the turkey allergy.  Now we have a family member allergic to turkey (probably always was and we just didn’t know because lots of people end up with stomach aches after a big holiday dinner, right?) so our holiday dinners have evolved into a mix of things that are a lot less work (YAY!)

and require little cleanup because that’s the way I roll.  The last thing I want to do after Christmas dinner is dishes.

I’ve never had a turkey dinner go as badly as Clark’s did,although one year at Easter when I was still a teenager, we played games with dad so late that mom finally decided to eat alone at about 9pm because the turkey was drying out — I won’t expand on the resulting upset that we later apologized to her for.  We might have been just a little too focussed on our competition……

There are the George Bailey’s of this world who are just really good guys and have something crappy happen to them so they need to be reminded that they are really good guys and everyone loves them.  And there are the Clark Griswolds of this world who aren’t really any different.  I’ll bet you weren’t expecting that, were you?  Let’s face it, all Clark wanted was to give his family the best darn Christmas he could give them, with all the lights and gifts and dinner and the tree and the Christmas bonus.  And when it all seemed to bomb he went postal: “Alleluia!  Holy shit!  Where’s the Tylenol?”  There was no angel showing up to give him therapy, but his family came through and showed him they loved him.
 

Of course I can’t end this without mentioning Charlie Brown.  His Christmas special has been part of my life since I was a small child and will always be my favourite.  It’s such a perfect half hour example of what it takes other movies hours to say:  if you have friends and family around who care about you (the dog is a bonus), you can have difficulties and sadness along the way and still have your Christmas turn out just fine.

So whatever your Christmas looks like or tastes like, own it and enjoy it and don’t compare it to anyone else’s because it doesn’t matter.  Expectations are something we put on ourselves or allow others to put on us.  Learn to say “no” to the media hype, relatives who push too hard, commercial overload, or whatever it is that gets your tinsel in a tangle.  It’s your Christmas too. By the time it’s over will you be exhausted and have regrets, or will you be well rested and happy with how you spent it?  I’ll be relaxing with my feet up watching the fake fire on TV and not giving a hoot about whether the pictures are art book worthy.  Merry Christmas Norman Rockwell, George Bailey, Clark Griswold and Charlie Brown.  You’ve all taught me something!

 

I’m No Feminist!

Attention man bashers: You won’t like this post.  I’m not going to say the things you want to hear about being a woman.  I’m going to challenge your ideas and encourage women to ignore you, so this post isn’t for you.  Or is it?

I never bought into women’s lib.  The philosophy that a woman is always equal to a man and that women don’t need men has always irritated me.  Yet, with my mind set against it, somehow my brain passively absorbed some of the toxic attitudes of feminism and I didn’t even recognize it until well into my years of fulfilling my dreams.

As long as I can remember, what I wanted was to be a wife and mother.  When I got to junior high school and had ideas for a while about becoming a lawyer, it only lasted until I did the math: 8 years of university – during which getting married and having children while studying didn’t sound practical – put me at twenty six years old.  With a degree and the expenses that go along with getting one, I would obviously have had to work right away for a while to pay it all off.  Eventually it became clear to me that I wouldn’t be able to be the wife and mom I wanted to be until I was nearly middle aged (for a fourteen year old, middle age is anywhere from thirty-five on!).  So I weighed things out and there was no contest.  I didn’t care about the title or the money.  I just wanted my own family and to live in a happy marriage to someone I could grow old with, and I found a special man who wanted the same.

However, over the years I became a bossy wife who wanted things done my way and thought I had all the answers when it came to raising children and running a home.  My husband was a quiet and easy going man, always ready to do whatever made me happy (God love him) and put up little resistance.  Eventually I came to see how my attitude not only affected my husband and children but myself as well, and I didn’t like it.  I definitely wasn’t a mainstream feminist, but I was disheartened to notice the influences I had unintentionally succumbed to.  So I changed it, and I’m glad I did.  Treating him with more respect and showing regular appreciation were much more fruitful and mutually beneficial than acting like a selfish witch when I wanted my own way.  He loved me either way, and has always been quick to forgive, although I don’t know how he put up with me before I “grew up”.

This isn’t about whether women should work, that’s your own business.  It isn’t marriage advice either, just a perspective, and much of what I learned, put into practice and found life-changing came from Dr. Laura, who I happen to agree with nine times out of ten.  She has a great book called “The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands” which caused a lot of controversy for today’s “women” and I highly recommend it.

I learned over the years that my husband had simple needs.  The smallest gestures and signs of affection had a big impact.  Thanking him for driving in crappy weather without complaint to work hard for our family made him feel appreciated. Taking time away from whatever I was doing each day to kiss him good bye when he left the house, wave at the window as he drove away, and greet him when he came home made him feel special and me connected.  And I never once had to ask him to take out the garbage or clean up after himself.  Even after working all day while I was at home, he offered to help me do what needed doing.  He thanked me often too.  He never wanted to spend money on himself because he preferred to buy things for the kids and me.  He supported everything I ever tried to do and encouraged me even when I didn’t have confidence in myself.  

I learned that my husband was a problem solver and that I wasn’t tapping into this wonderful gift!  He could only listen to my venting so long without offering help and if a solution wasn’t what I was expecting from him, I knew when to be quiet about it.  He wanted me to be happy and when I wasn’t, he wanted to fix it. By venting to him and then getting upset when he didn’t just “listen” without solving, I took away from him something valuable he had to offer and he didn’t know what I expected.  Usually, when I was open to them, his solutions proved to be sensible and effective.  Even now in his condition, with little understanding of his severe disabilities, he wants to be able to help me.  It is part of his nature as a man.

I learned that when I lost the attitude, his strengths came forward more easily and I was able to experience joy and peace knowing that he was always going to have my back.  I learned that no place was as safe and comfortable for me as my husband’s arms, and that a simple thing like  reaching my foot across the bed to touch his in the middle of the night gave me security and comfort.  Did I need him?  Absolutely.

We were not “equal” in anything other than dignity and it would be ridiculous to assume that we were.  We each had strengths and weaknesses that the other balanced off in other ways and together we were strong, we were one.  That doesn’t mean I was diminished as a woman and couldn’t survive without a man.  It means I was better as part of our team, happier, more at peace, and more fulfilled in my own life.  

I’m not one for quoting the Bible, but it often seems that people react to only the first part of the whole teaching on wives being submissive to their husbands and forget to read the part about husbands loving their wives.  It really does work whether you believe in the Bible or not.  

 

 

 

 

 

I just don’t happen to think that a strong feminist attitude makes anyone happy, women included.  Over the years I’ve heard women openly bash and complain about their men in social situations and it just makes me wonder how respectful or appreciative they are at home if they are that disrespectful in public, and if maybe it’s that attitude that is getting them more of what they are complaining about.  No matter what our differences, I would never disrespect my husband by disclosing his faults to other women over coffee.  Nor would he have done that to me.  If I discussed him at all, I wanted others to know the good things about him. 

Maybe some women don’t think they need a man to be happy, maybe some just haven’t found one yet, and maybe some have been treated poorly through no fault of their own and have good reason to want to stay alone.  Maybe feminism initiated necessary changes in practical things where women were treated poorly.  But like everything, the pendulum swings too far.

My perspective worked for me and I found happiness and love and a marriage strong enough to withstand a life-changing tragedy that actually showed me how much love there is.  I thought I knew before, but now I really know. 

While shopping in a store that takes some of my handcrafted items on consignment, I overheard a couple of women reading out loud the words on a sign I made:  “Let the wife make the husband glad to come home and let him make her sorry to see him leave.”  When I found that quote, it touched me deeply, because it expresses the care and attention I’ve experienced in marriage and seems a simple piece of advice for those seeking mutual happiness.  But their response (of course not knowing me or that I had made it) was “Wow, that’s a co-dependent relationship” and they walked away chuckling to look at something else.  I wasn’t offended.  I was saddened that they had missed the important point.  Clearly their ideas of husband and wife were different than mine.

So if any hard core feminists actually read this all the way to the end and now want to scream at me, I’m OK with that.  If you’re wanting to ask: “What about how the men should treat the women?” you’ve missed the point as you often do. The only time I ever feel diminished as a woman is when feminists act and speak in ways that make us all look bad.  Working to be a loving wife and making my husband happy has never taken away my womanhood.

 

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

OK, so maybe for a lot of people it is, and for me it probably was.  But when your life gets turned upside down and you spend most of your time and energy from then on just trying to tread water so you don’t drown, the Christmas season is not necessarily a spirit lifter.  It becomes one more reminder of how your life sucks so much that even though Bing thinks it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, you can’t feel merry and bright, your heart is anything but light, all is not calm and the halls are definitely not what you feel like “decking”.

Eventually, I will post our story, but for now suffice it to say that I have very good reason to not be enjoying the music, decorations, and general giddiness that surrounds me in the midst of a broken heart.  Christmas will come and go and in most ways will be just another day for me.  At this point I’m not necessarily waiting for Jesus to be “born”; I’d be satisfied if He would just fix this mess and I don’t care which day of the year He chooses.

I have happy Christmas memories from childhood and from many years of marriage and children of my own.  Sadly now, those happy memories just make this time of year even harder.  Last year, our family Christmas was celebrated in a hospital among people who suffered as much as we did, some even more.  And it was celebrated without my dad, who passed away shorty before.  It is a Christmas I would rather forget, and often do, because I find myself referring to “last year” and meaning 2012.  But that’s part of that other story, the one where my brain ends up injured too.

However, this post isn’t just about me; it’s about recognizing that, for many people, this time of year brings sadness and unhappy memories.  In fact, I’ve heard a few people actually tell me that they wish the whole season would just go by without any kind of fanfare or that they could just skip it altogether.  I never understood that until this point in my own life.

Charlie Brown was depressed because he just couldn’t feel happy about Christmas.  He didn’t “get it”.  His friends watched him and wondered what his problem was, thinking it was just another one of his personality issues because he thought too much.  Linus tried to help him out by explaining the “real meaning” of Christmas, but I can tell you that for a depressed melancholic character, that whole “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field…” thing doesn’t cut it, even if it’s told by a cute little guy carrying a blanket.

Chuck picked out the loneliest looking little tree because he had hope for it and it represented a simpler celebration than all the commercial ideas were promoting. He got a few minutes of joy from hanging a lovely ball on a branch and for a moment it looked like Christmas would be OK.  And then BAM! it dropped to the ground, along with his heart and once again he felt the pain we melancholics often feel of knowing all along that hoping for something doesn’t make it so, and many times over, carrots are dangled and pulled away just as quickly.  Hopes are crushed.

Yes, it is supposed to be about Jesus being born into the world.  We tell this to our kids and hope it will keep them from getting too attached to the presents.  We put up the nativity scene in the middle of all the other decorations as a reminder and hope this will keep the focus on what Christmas actually means.  But how many of us really know the difference?  I thought I did.  I thought I knew a lot of things that I don’t know.

I know it isn’t about spending everything you have on a bunch of stuff you don’t need so you can pat yourself on the back because you gave the best gifts and then enjoy the bills for months to come.  My kids tease me because we realized that my Christmas budget is pretty much the same now as it was when they were little over twenty years ago.  I don’t do inflation.  And I don’t do $20 stocking stuffers either.  

I know it isn’t about the food and stuffing a year’s worth of special treats and goodies into one celebration.  Been there, done that, got sick.  And fat.  Now once the baking starts it’s fair game unless it has already made it to the freezer.  Why not enjoy the treats throughout the season instead of doing all that work and hoarding them for “Christmas” which in our house meant two days.  By the way, there are certain treats that are completely tasty right out of the freezer.

I know it isn’t about getting gifts because as much fun as it is, I can hardly ever remember what I got and I know my kids have the same problem, even though I spent many hours over the years planning and preparing and wrapping and surprising.  

I know it isn’t about traditions because I’ve finally realized that I don’t have to drink egg nog just because we are decorating the tree. I don’t even like eggnog.  Yet since I was a child it was part of the tree decorating in our home, which I passed onto my kids, and now I find out one of them doesn’t like it either.  So beer it is, or maybe wine, but I can never remember which one you’re supposed to drink first?  And I can live without shortbread too.  I don’t love it anymore either and my kids never really liked it so I ended up eating it all myself, which is probably why I’m sick of it.  I’m going to eat what I like and drink what I like and if it changes every year, that’s fine with me.

That doesn’t leave me with much.  I’m not going to talk about how it’s all about being nice to others and getting together with friends and family because we all know that’s true, but we can do that other times too, and we do.  That part of “Christmas” happens for me when I’m desperate for help, can’t leave the hospital, and know that my friend is on the other end of a text and will bring me food.  And hug me while I cry.  And for a few minutes my world isn’t black.

I’m not knocking Christmas, or telling anyone else what it should be for them.  And I’m not going to tell the people who don’t like it that if they just knew what it really meant they would be happier.  I’m just saying that some people don’t know, some people don’t care, and some people are in so much pain that they’d rather curl up in a big chair and wake up when it’s over.  And at a time of year when we are trying to spread good cheer, we need to remember that.  Some people just need understanding more than jingle bells.

In the end, all of Charlie Brown’s friends fixed up his tree and gathered around him to sing and it looked like a happy ending.  For lots of people it will be.  But we all know that wasn’t the end of his story …

 

I want the real Santa back!

It doesn’t matter to me when you put up your Christmas tree, or which Christmas greeting you use.  I’m not even going to rant about the real meaning of Christmas because, let’s face it, we all like the presents and the food even if we boast about Jesus being the reason for the season.  
But I do want to say something about Santa because this society has taken him from a never seen or heard mysterious and magical part of Christmas to a sports car driving techno dude in a sleigh tracked by satellite who does guest spots on the radio, and kids are glued to the internet on Christmas Eve instead of sitting on someone’s knee listening to a classic storybook and it bugs me.
 
Yes, we did the “Santa” thing when our kids were young.  Would I do it again? No.  I do believe in “Santa”, just not this one.
 
Magic comes from mystery, something really unique and exciting we can’t ever quite put our hands on or wrap our minds around.  Things that are everywhere, embellished and adapted to suit individual ideas and activities are not mysteries.  They become overload and quickly take the magic away.  Drink eggnog every day for a year and see if you care two hoots about it on Christmas Eve!
 
When I was little, Santa was the guy no one ever saw.  He showed up magically to deliver presents on Christmas Eve after we were asleep.  We didn’t have to write letters because he saw us when we were sleeping and knew when we were awake, so he just knew stuff – important stuff – like what we wanted for Christmas.  In our house we left him beer and pepperoni, because we knew he would be tired of eating all those cookies along the way. It was a simple mystery.  It was magic.  It was exciting and fun.
 
Then he started showing up at the store.  And after that, at several stores.  Soon explanation that the real Santa couldn’t be everywhere at once so some of the guys in red suits were elves helping out and you just never knew which one was the real McCoy was necessary.  OK, fine, I bought it for the short term.  But why did Santa have to be in the stores at all?  Wasn’t he busy up there at the North Pole getting ready for Christmas and that around the world in 24 hours trip? How did he have time to come down with his elves (who were supposedly making toys up there) to sit in stores?  The magic was fading.  
 
Next came the letter writing.  Apparently Santa was aging too and perhaps needed reminders about things, so writing the letters and then sitting on his knee to ask again were probably helpful for him.  Parents swiped the letters to “mail” them and quickly opened them up to make sure they got it right.  Kids never saw them again and never knew the difference.  Gifts appeared under the tree. 
 
Santa started showing up at company Christmas parties and handing out presents early, to the kids that were there.  Huh?  Now THAT was a mystery.  Why the hell would he do that for some and not others?  I guess you had to book him early on because the party season was so busy.  Tough luck if you missed it.  The magic faded a little more.
 
And then I got to school and that was the end of it, because unless all parents are on the same brainwave, it’s over.  The funny thing is that if you are the one who knows the truth you are supposed to keep it to yourself so that the other parents can keep on lying, and if you tell the truth you are in trouble for spoiling their kids’ fun.  My fun got spoiled because some other kid found out before me. Goodbye magic.
 
Skip ahead to my own little ones, and while I wanted to share the fun with them, I began choking on the whole Santa can’t be everywhere so he sends his elves to help him out story.  I put them on his knee for pictures even the year that they screamed and cried in fear.  Even magic Santa couldn’t make them happy enough to sit for a picture at the age of one when mommy handed them off to a stranger in a bright red suit.  No mystery there!  
 
Santa started showing up everywhere we turned, in different costumes, sometimes fat, sometimes not, and now coming right into the schools to have kids sit on his knee.  They had yearly Santa pictures taken and anyone with eyes could see that no two Santas looked exactly the same.  Now they had a photographic record to prove it.  Some people were arranging for “Santa” to make phone calls to their kids, visit their family gatherings, and inviting us to participate.  Didn’t they think about what happened the next day when their kids told other kids who didn’t get to do these things with Santa?  I drew the line there, finally starting to see where all this was going, never imagining just how far it would be taken later on.
 
The Santa letters I helped our kids to write were then mailed to an actual address through the post office, and they received replies from Santa.  I guess somewhere along the way the elves must have reproduced like rabbits to allow Santa all this letter writing time right in December, which everyone knows is the busiest time of year for any business, and we at home are all scrambling just to get our own box of cards addressed and stamped.  But I went with it, they were happy and it gave us something to save for the scrapbooks.
 
Enter the school:  while I’m sure letter writing skills are important and worthy of being taught, there seemed a gap in logic when letters to Santa were being written in the classroom where kids could add anything they wanted — without their parents having a clue of the content — and the school mailed them, resulting in another reply from a Santa with apparently too much time on his hands.  Not to mention that whatever was asked for in the school letter was often something parents didn’t know about, so let’s play guess that gift and hope for the best.
 
Skip ahead to today’s children whose parents are pressured into buying eery little elf dolls because so-and-so has one and the lie must go on!  They’re supposedly “watching” kids all day and at night doing all kinds of things for which kids would get into trouble, while reporting back to Santa (who used to know on his own who’s been naughty or nice).  OMG!  What’s next? 
 
When are they going to come out with “Santa’s Secretary” so he doesn’t even have to write the damn list himself anymore? Then maybe he can just send the reindeer around with the sleigh to stuff the presents down the chimneys — certainly they all know the route themselves by now and probably have begun tuning out the whole “On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer, on Vixen” thing with a few “as if we don’t know what the hell we’re doing” eye rolls anyway — and he can stay warm at home with Mrs. Clause for a change. After all, maybe she’d like some attention on Christmas Eve …
 
Let’s be honest:  we lie to our kids.  We tell them a fairy pays for their teeth but doesn’t know the difference between a quarter and a $20 bill to cover the fact that the kid down the street has richer parents.  We tell them about a rabbit that delivers eggs and chocolate bunnies at Easter (no magic sleigh or even helpers here, the guy just hops around the world carrying loads of treats in his two little front paws and none of it melts?) There is a difference between withholding truth they don’t need at a particular time, and formulating lies that require more and more lies to keep each other going.  We tell ourselves these lies are for fun and they create magic.  No they don’t.  They steal magic away as the lies get bigger and bigger because kids get smarter and smarter.  Not only that, but there is an expectation that other parents will also lie and teach their kids to lie so as not to spoil the “magic” that our lie is working to create.  Now we have kids lying to keep parents happy.  There is something very wrong with this.
 
I don’t believe in this Santa Clause and I don’t want my future grandchildren to believe in him either.   If I had it to do over again, I would do the “Santa” thing but here’s how it would go:
 
I would tell my kids that Saint Nick – a real person in our real world – was the first Santa Clause, that he loved children and went around giving them special gifts.  Now that he’s gone, we carry on his tradition and keep the spirit of Santa alive by playing Santa for others.  Parents play Santa when kids are small and when they grow older they can join in on the fun of surprising, giving and sharing.  I’ve seen this become magic.  Children learn what they live and whatever parents present as magic and exciting fun will be perceived as such and the traditions will last because they are built on truth rather than on unfolding lies with disappointment at the end.  Santa is real – he is part of all of us.

Mr. Frances Church got it right in 1897 when he responded to an inquiring little girl that “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause.”  If only we could stop the madness and go back to a time when Santa was a mystery and we didn’t even know what he looked like, until he got thirsty and started drinking Coca Cola…

Related links:
Truth, Lies and the Elf on the Shelf
Santa and Coca Cola