By Kelly
Corey leaves on a business trip tomorrow. It’s his first trip of the new year and the kick-off to a busy travel season. Thanks to conferences and client visits, he’ll be gone roughly every other week between now and May. Unfortunately for me, most of those trips will be to warm destinations.
The night before he leaves is always extra wistful. All of a sudden, the beauty in our daily routine shines fresh, scrubbed bright by imminent separation. If you had looked in our windows tonight – and really, anyone can, since we don’t have coverings on our patio doors – you would have seen a family laughing over the baby’s reaction to homemade applesauce (apparently, it was sour), a little girl who has her daddy’s dark skin scold him for talking with his mouth full, a little boy scarf down his applesauce and mac-and-cheese and immediately ask to be excused, the better to escape the meatloaf and peas left on his plate.
It was normal, everyday stuff, but tonight, it was extra tender. Corey and I lingered over the dirty dishes and let the kids run around the living room longer than usual. It was late when we finally, reluctantly, began herding the masses upstairs toward bed.
I took the baby into the nursery, the baby who is unapologetic in her gleeful shrieks of “Da!”, and got out some pajamas from the back of the drawer, tomorrow being laundry day. These particular pajamas made the sense of melancholy grow deeper; they were a pair of Natalie’s footsies, retrieved from the bin of baby clothes only last week.
I held them up and inhaled with all my might. They smelled like baby Natalie, clean and warm and somehow musky, like our lives seven years ago when we were a family of three and living in San Diego.
I shook them out and motioned to Natalie and Connor. “Do you know who used to wear these?”
Natalie grinned and rolled her eye a little and said, "ME!"
Connor, who harbors a sentimental streak as wide as the Mississippi under his tousled masculinity, cocked his head and cooed, “Ahhhh, they are so cute!”
Ignoring the pilled fleece and worn cuffs, I replied, “They are cute, aren’t they?” I buried my nose again and took another deep breath. The air around me felt heavy with nostalgia.
I was having a moment.
“And look what’s on them,” I squinted, “little bear fairies.”
“What,” said Corey, who was playing with the baby on the changing table, “is that like a bunch of naked gay guys?”
I snickered.
The moment was over.
Thankfully, the lifetime goes on.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
To Parent like Dumbledore
By Kelly
My brother got me a set of Harry Potter books for Christmas. It was a good gift, seeing as I somehow managed to escape the whole Potter phenomenon. I had just been telling my husband that I would really like to read the series someday -- which, now that I think about it, is probably how it came to be under our Christmas tree.
Naturally, I've been riveted ever since I started "The Sorcerer's Stone." I'm on "The Half-Blood Prince" now, which is book six in the series. I can't say this reading binge has been particularly good for my children, who've heard me say, "as soon as Mommy is finished with this chapter," with alarming frequency the last few weeks.
But it has done this: It has given me a new role model. I've decided I want to parent like Dumbledore.
I want to interact with my children the way Dumbledore interacts with Harry. He's kind and patient and wise. When Harry rants, Dumbledore waits. When Harry asks too many questions, Dumbledore gently reminds him that answers will come in time. He seems impossible to frustrate or fluster. I doubt Dumbledore would ever shout at the students of Hogwarts, "Hurry up and finish your breakfast! How many times have I told you, we've got to go!"
No matter what's going on around him, he maintains an aura of strength and authority. He obviously cares for Harry, but he isn't about to let him skip detention when he defies a teacher. He is supremely powerful, as is befitting one of the most powerful wizards of his time, yet it's power held in check. It's a power he controls, not a power that controls him.
I say this, of course, because I often find myself parenting in an opposite vein. I am harried and distracted. I don't listen well. I feel controlled by outside circumstances, like I'm always reacting instead of acting.
So, for the next few weeks, I'm going to keep Dumbledore in mind as I go about my day. I'm the kind of person who responds best to real-life scenarios, so reading about his interactions with Harry, although imaginary, are helpful to me. I'm going to try, with God's help, to mimic his example.
Also, the ability to work a good quietus charm would come in handy once in a while. I wonder if I could get my hand on a semi-used wand anywhere?
Once she finishes the Harry Potter series, Kelly will resume blogging at Love Well.
My brother got me a set of Harry Potter books for Christmas. It was a good gift, seeing as I somehow managed to escape the whole Potter phenomenon. I had just been telling my husband that I would really like to read the series someday -- which, now that I think about it, is probably how it came to be under our Christmas tree.
Naturally, I've been riveted ever since I started "The Sorcerer's Stone." I'm on "The Half-Blood Prince" now, which is book six in the series. I can't say this reading binge has been particularly good for my children, who've heard me say, "as soon as Mommy is finished with this chapter," with alarming frequency the last few weeks.
But it has done this: It has given me a new role model. I've decided I want to parent like Dumbledore.
I want to interact with my children the way Dumbledore interacts with Harry. He's kind and patient and wise. When Harry rants, Dumbledore waits. When Harry asks too many questions, Dumbledore gently reminds him that answers will come in time. He seems impossible to frustrate or fluster. I doubt Dumbledore would ever shout at the students of Hogwarts, "Hurry up and finish your breakfast! How many times have I told you, we've got to go!"
No matter what's going on around him, he maintains an aura of strength and authority. He obviously cares for Harry, but he isn't about to let him skip detention when he defies a teacher. He is supremely powerful, as is befitting one of the most powerful wizards of his time, yet it's power held in check. It's a power he controls, not a power that controls him.
I say this, of course, because I often find myself parenting in an opposite vein. I am harried and distracted. I don't listen well. I feel controlled by outside circumstances, like I'm always reacting instead of acting.
So, for the next few weeks, I'm going to keep Dumbledore in mind as I go about my day. I'm the kind of person who responds best to real-life scenarios, so reading about his interactions with Harry, although imaginary, are helpful to me. I'm going to try, with God's help, to mimic his example.
Also, the ability to work a good quietus charm would come in handy once in a while. I wonder if I could get my hand on a semi-used wand anywhere?
Once she finishes the Harry Potter series, Kelly will resume blogging at Love Well.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Jabberwocky
By Kelly
Listen.
Do you hear that?
It’s silence.
At least, that’s what I hear right now. I hear nothing but the whoosh of warm air into my bedroom and the methodical tick-tock of my periwinkle alarm clock. Everyone else is asleep, the room is dark and the hush is almost palpable.
I can feel the peace seeping into my soul, relaxing both my shoulders and my brain.
Ahhhhh.
I love my kids. I love them to pieces. But I’m apparently raising a gaggle of jabberwockies. And some days, the nonstop chatter gets to me.
Right now, my five-year-old son is the prime offender. He follows me around all day, talking and talking and talking. “Mom, I’m making some pizza. Do you want some.” “Mom, look at my Lego guy. He’s a crusher!” “Mom, let’s play a game. Do you want to be queens or twos?” “Mom, here’s the gun I made for you. It shoots jellies.” “Mom, do you know why Short Round is hanging from the Coast Guarder helicopter?” “Mom. Mom. MOM!”
Most days, I deal with the stream of sound with a lot of prayer and a fair dose of laughter. But yesterday, at lunchtime, I found myself saying (for real), “Buddy, can you be quiet for just five minutes? Just five minutes so Mommy can think without her brain exploding out of her head?”
Then, because he was starting to look hurt, “Maybe we can try to make this peanut butter and jelly sandwich together, using only sign language. Do you think we can do that?’
He looked at me quizzically. “No, Mom. That’s silly. Why would we want to do that?”
And he was off again.
I sighed.
I don’t want to crush his spirit, and I know these days of having him at home with me are fleeting. There are times I love listening to his unfiltered thoughts (“You know, Mom, when you crashed the car yesterday, you made me pop!”), and his view on life often makes me giggle (“Mom, stop singing! You’re giving me a song ache!”).
But other days? Oh my word, child. You’re driving Mommy insane.
I think that's part of the reason it's hard for us mommies to go to bed at night. Once the kid are asleep and silence is all we hear, we need to soak it in for a while. It's a healing balm. The quiet is restorative.
And we know we'll need a reserve for the next day, when the chatter inevitably starts up again, often before we even get out of bed.
Right Mom? Right?
Mom?
If it's quiet long enough, Kelly can also be found blogging at Love Well.
Listen.
Do you hear that?
It’s silence.
At least, that’s what I hear right now. I hear nothing but the whoosh of warm air into my bedroom and the methodical tick-tock of my periwinkle alarm clock. Everyone else is asleep, the room is dark and the hush is almost palpable.
I can feel the peace seeping into my soul, relaxing both my shoulders and my brain.
Ahhhhh.
I love my kids. I love them to pieces. But I’m apparently raising a gaggle of jabberwockies. And some days, the nonstop chatter gets to me.
Right now, my five-year-old son is the prime offender. He follows me around all day, talking and talking and talking. “Mom, I’m making some pizza. Do you want some.” “Mom, look at my Lego guy. He’s a crusher!” “Mom, let’s play a game. Do you want to be queens or twos?” “Mom, here’s the gun I made for you. It shoots jellies.” “Mom, do you know why Short Round is hanging from the Coast Guarder helicopter?” “Mom. Mom. MOM!”
Most days, I deal with the stream of sound with a lot of prayer and a fair dose of laughter. But yesterday, at lunchtime, I found myself saying (for real), “Buddy, can you be quiet for just five minutes? Just five minutes so Mommy can think without her brain exploding out of her head?”
Then, because he was starting to look hurt, “Maybe we can try to make this peanut butter and jelly sandwich together, using only sign language. Do you think we can do that?’
He looked at me quizzically. “No, Mom. That’s silly. Why would we want to do that?”
And he was off again.
I sighed.
I don’t want to crush his spirit, and I know these days of having him at home with me are fleeting. There are times I love listening to his unfiltered thoughts (“You know, Mom, when you crashed the car yesterday, you made me pop!”), and his view on life often makes me giggle (“Mom, stop singing! You’re giving me a song ache!”).
But other days? Oh my word, child. You’re driving Mommy insane.
I think that's part of the reason it's hard for us mommies to go to bed at night. Once the kid are asleep and silence is all we hear, we need to soak it in for a while. It's a healing balm. The quiet is restorative.
And we know we'll need a reserve for the next day, when the chatter inevitably starts up again, often before we even get out of bed.
Right Mom? Right?
Mom?
If it's quiet long enough, Kelly can also be found blogging at Love Well.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Uh-oh
By Kelly
Teyla, who will be one on Friday, is attempting her first word this week.
It’s “uh-oh.”
That scares me, just a little.
My intuition tells me this is the child who will necessitate Christmas cards sent annually to the emergency room staff. This is the child who will attempt to cut her own hair with gardening shears. This is the child who will make my hair go gray before I pull it out.
She’s so inquisitive. So smart. So opinionated. So persistent.
So strong-willed.
I don’t like labels all that much, especially labels that carry a negative connotation. I don’t like how they box people in and set up preconceived (and often self-fulfilling) notions.
But in this case, it is what it is. Teyla is the sweetest baby. Her grin makes the air around her crackle with joy. She giggles and shrieks and discovers her way through each waking moment. But she is also a spitfire and raising her will be an extreme sport, both exhilarating and dangerous.
If there’s anything I’ve learned in my seven years of parenting, it’s that each child is unique and thus requires their own unique parenting style. All of my kids are strong-willed in their own way. (It’s what happens when a strong-willed woman marries a stubborn man.) Natalie’s iron will doesn’t come out unless she’s backed into a corner, and even then, she tries to sheath it in velvet. Connor is willing to obey, as long as he agrees with the request. If not, he would rather hold his ground and die than give in.
And Teyla, at 11 months, is already paving her own path.
Consider:
She will not be restrained by straps in shopping carts. It’s common for me to be seen wandering the aisles of Target with one hand grasping the back of her tiny shirt as she stands in the cart seat – with the belt still around her midsection – facing forward and shrieking. (I jokingly tell the amazed onlookers that she’s a born surfer.)
She does not feel it necessary to actually sit in her high chair. Five minutes after I buckle her in for a meal, she is free of the seat and sitting on the tray, dangling a chubby foot – now sockless, of course – over the edge, as if she was sitting on a lakeside dock on a summer’s day.
She has fallen down the stairs. Twice.
She has taught me what it means to fear silence.
(As I’m writing this, she is in the laundry room pulling down her sibling’s bags of Halloween candy. She already has a huge Tootsie Roll – still in the wrapper – stuffed in her mouth. Oy.)
When she wants something, she points to it and shrills. “Dat! Dat!” When denied her prize – like my coffee, for instance – she howls. If she’s feeling particularly dramatic, she throws in an arched back for good measure.
For the most part, Corey and I just laugh at our tiny dictator’s antics. We like to say our kids don’t know who they are messing with. We are strong-willed black belts. It’s tiring, parenting such determined children. But we know that with great strength comes great potential. And we pray that our own journeys, filled with battles and scars and profound humblings, will give us wisdom as we attempt to steer these wild stallions.
Because trying to parent these little ones without the help of The One who made them?
That’s the real uh-oh.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Teyla, who will be one on Friday, is attempting her first word this week.
It’s “uh-oh.”
That scares me, just a little.
My intuition tells me this is the child who will necessitate Christmas cards sent annually to the emergency room staff. This is the child who will attempt to cut her own hair with gardening shears. This is the child who will make my hair go gray before I pull it out.
She’s so inquisitive. So smart. So opinionated. So persistent.
So strong-willed.
I don’t like labels all that much, especially labels that carry a negative connotation. I don’t like how they box people in and set up preconceived (and often self-fulfilling) notions.
But in this case, it is what it is. Teyla is the sweetest baby. Her grin makes the air around her crackle with joy. She giggles and shrieks and discovers her way through each waking moment. But she is also a spitfire and raising her will be an extreme sport, both exhilarating and dangerous.
If there’s anything I’ve learned in my seven years of parenting, it’s that each child is unique and thus requires their own unique parenting style. All of my kids are strong-willed in their own way. (It’s what happens when a strong-willed woman marries a stubborn man.) Natalie’s iron will doesn’t come out unless she’s backed into a corner, and even then, she tries to sheath it in velvet. Connor is willing to obey, as long as he agrees with the request. If not, he would rather hold his ground and die than give in.
And Teyla, at 11 months, is already paving her own path.
Consider:
She will not be restrained by straps in shopping carts. It’s common for me to be seen wandering the aisles of Target with one hand grasping the back of her tiny shirt as she stands in the cart seat – with the belt still around her midsection – facing forward and shrieking. (I jokingly tell the amazed onlookers that she’s a born surfer.)
She does not feel it necessary to actually sit in her high chair. Five minutes after I buckle her in for a meal, she is free of the seat and sitting on the tray, dangling a chubby foot – now sockless, of course – over the edge, as if she was sitting on a lakeside dock on a summer’s day.
She has fallen down the stairs. Twice.
She has taught me what it means to fear silence.
(As I’m writing this, she is in the laundry room pulling down her sibling’s bags of Halloween candy. She already has a huge Tootsie Roll – still in the wrapper – stuffed in her mouth. Oy.)
When she wants something, she points to it and shrills. “Dat! Dat!” When denied her prize – like my coffee, for instance – she howls. If she’s feeling particularly dramatic, she throws in an arched back for good measure.
For the most part, Corey and I just laugh at our tiny dictator’s antics. We like to say our kids don’t know who they are messing with. We are strong-willed black belts. It’s tiring, parenting such determined children. But we know that with great strength comes great potential. And we pray that our own journeys, filled with battles and scars and profound humblings, will give us wisdom as we attempt to steer these wild stallions.
Because trying to parent these little ones without the help of The One who made them?
That’s the real uh-oh.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Overdone
By Kelly
I chalk it up to hubris.
I had such an extraordinarily productive morning– cleaning the house, picking up toys, vacuuming the half-gallon of pine needles from under our Christmas tree – I thought I would bake cut-out cookies with all three children, right before dinner, all by myself.
Idiot. I say that fondly, but still. Idiot.
The older kids, ages 7 and 5, were helpful and excited. Maybe a little too excited. Connor couldn’t stop eating scraps of dough, and Natalie was a tad overzealous with the horse cookie cutters. (I guess the holy family will be traveling to Bethlehem on nobler steeds this year.) Teyla, at 11 months, stood in her high chair and loudly proclaimed her displeasure, both with her confinement and her lack of cookie-cutting involvement.
The oven smoldered as it preheated. Apparently, the chicken pot pie I made Sunday night had bubbled over more than I thought. The phone rang. My sister had a question about a Christmas present. Connor popped another quarter-sized piece of dough in his mouth. The phone rang again. It was someone from the animal rescue organization; would we want to come see one of their dogs tomorrow? The baby decided to get the heck out of Dodge by crawling out onto her high chair tray. I threw two trays of cookies into the oven. A black cloud billowed out at me. I opened the door to our deck, the better to keep the smoke detectors silent. Natalie decided to make another horse for Christmas.
Is it any wonder that half of the cookies ended up overdone? They weren’t burnt, exactly. But they weren’t golden and beautiful, either. They were a little too brown, a little too crunchy.
Just like me at Christmas.
I try to do too much. No matter how much I aim to simplify, I end up with a To Do List that rivals Santa’s. And I wind up overdone. Not burned all the way. Not in full-down Brittany Spears melt-down mode. Just crispy and hard and brittle around the edges.
It’s not worth it. I know that already, but tonight, two dozen molasses-colored cookies reminded me again. It’s not worth it. Better to bake one batch of cookies and enjoy it than to bake 12 varieties and be annoyed with my kids the whole time when they want to taste the dough. Better to leave the laundry unfolded on top of the dryer than to stay up until the wee hours of the morning so my house will be perfectly in order on December 25. Better to spend some time being quiet before the One who’s birth we celebrate than to have a holiday filled with all kinds of sentimentality but none of truth.
Unfortunately, there’s no real fix for overdone sugar cookies. (Although frosting helps.)
But for an overdone spirit? There’s relief every sunrise.
This I recall to mind, therefore I have hope. The LORD’s lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.
May your Christmas shine golden with His love and faithfulness. Even if your cookies are overdone.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
I chalk it up to hubris.
I had such an extraordinarily productive morning– cleaning the house, picking up toys, vacuuming the half-gallon of pine needles from under our Christmas tree – I thought I would bake cut-out cookies with all three children, right before dinner, all by myself.
Idiot. I say that fondly, but still. Idiot.
The older kids, ages 7 and 5, were helpful and excited. Maybe a little too excited. Connor couldn’t stop eating scraps of dough, and Natalie was a tad overzealous with the horse cookie cutters. (I guess the holy family will be traveling to Bethlehem on nobler steeds this year.) Teyla, at 11 months, stood in her high chair and loudly proclaimed her displeasure, both with her confinement and her lack of cookie-cutting involvement.
The oven smoldered as it preheated. Apparently, the chicken pot pie I made Sunday night had bubbled over more than I thought. The phone rang. My sister had a question about a Christmas present. Connor popped another quarter-sized piece of dough in his mouth. The phone rang again. It was someone from the animal rescue organization; would we want to come see one of their dogs tomorrow? The baby decided to get the heck out of Dodge by crawling out onto her high chair tray. I threw two trays of cookies into the oven. A black cloud billowed out at me. I opened the door to our deck, the better to keep the smoke detectors silent. Natalie decided to make another horse for Christmas.
Is it any wonder that half of the cookies ended up overdone? They weren’t burnt, exactly. But they weren’t golden and beautiful, either. They were a little too brown, a little too crunchy.
Just like me at Christmas.
I try to do too much. No matter how much I aim to simplify, I end up with a To Do List that rivals Santa’s. And I wind up overdone. Not burned all the way. Not in full-down Brittany Spears melt-down mode. Just crispy and hard and brittle around the edges.
It’s not worth it. I know that already, but tonight, two dozen molasses-colored cookies reminded me again. It’s not worth it. Better to bake one batch of cookies and enjoy it than to bake 12 varieties and be annoyed with my kids the whole time when they want to taste the dough. Better to leave the laundry unfolded on top of the dryer than to stay up until the wee hours of the morning so my house will be perfectly in order on December 25. Better to spend some time being quiet before the One who’s birth we celebrate than to have a holiday filled with all kinds of sentimentality but none of truth.
Unfortunately, there’s no real fix for overdone sugar cookies. (Although frosting helps.)
But for an overdone spirit? There’s relief every sunrise.
This I recall to mind, therefore I have hope. The LORD’s lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.
May your Christmas shine golden with His love and faithfulness. Even if your cookies are overdone.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Crazy Love
By Kelly
The holidays make people crazy.
Case in point: Me. I’m thinking about getting a dog for Christmas.
It’s not an impulsive decision. My husband and I have been thinking about this for years. We haven’t had a pet since our oldest was born. But during our double-income-no-kids years, we owned six dogs and one (spiteful) cat, so we know. We know. This is not a step into the abyss of the unknown.
But Natalie, our seven-year-old, came out of the womb asking for a pet. Her love for animals borderlines obsession. My youngest brother used to have a tiny pug named Trixie*. Whenever Trixie would come to our house for a visit, Natalie would focus in on that puppy with laser-beam concentration. Eventually, Trixie would end up hiding under a large piece of furniture – in an attempt to get away from all the togetherness – while Natalie laid on her stomach next to the furniture, peered into the darkness and cooed, “Hi Trixie. Hi. I see you under there. Yes I do. Did you think you could hide from me? I see you Trixie.”
Natalie was Bob to Trixie’s Dr. Leo Marvin.
Given that sort of pedigree, we’ve always known a pet was in our family future. It’s just a matter of timing.
And I can’t shake the feeling that the time is now. Even though we live in a townhouse without a yard. Even though it’s the middle of winter. (And our high yesterday was 4.) Even though we have a 11-month-old who’s walking and chattering and into trouble every waking moment of my day. Because when is life ever perfect? When do the stars ever align? If I keep putting off joy - for Natalie, for our family, maybe even for me - won't I regret it?
I'm ready. My husband is ready. Natalie is more than ready.
So I’ll ask. Am I crazy? Or is it love?
*Trixie was not the dog's real name. It was Booty. But if I told you that in the middle of my story, you would have been too distracted by all the snickering to continue.
**Also, I feel you should know that I successfully resisted the strong urge I had to title this post "Who Put The Dogs Out." You're welcome. Merry Christmas.
Kelly also blog at Love Well, although lately, she's been a bit too preoccupied with Petfinder to write much.
The holidays make people crazy.
Case in point: Me. I’m thinking about getting a dog for Christmas.
It’s not an impulsive decision. My husband and I have been thinking about this for years. We haven’t had a pet since our oldest was born. But during our double-income-no-kids years, we owned six dogs and one (spiteful) cat, so we know. We know. This is not a step into the abyss of the unknown.
But Natalie, our seven-year-old, came out of the womb asking for a pet. Her love for animals borderlines obsession. My youngest brother used to have a tiny pug named Trixie*. Whenever Trixie would come to our house for a visit, Natalie would focus in on that puppy with laser-beam concentration. Eventually, Trixie would end up hiding under a large piece of furniture – in an attempt to get away from all the togetherness – while Natalie laid on her stomach next to the furniture, peered into the darkness and cooed, “Hi Trixie. Hi. I see you under there. Yes I do. Did you think you could hide from me? I see you Trixie.”
Natalie was Bob to Trixie’s Dr. Leo Marvin.
Given that sort of pedigree, we’ve always known a pet was in our family future. It’s just a matter of timing.
And I can’t shake the feeling that the time is now. Even though we live in a townhouse without a yard. Even though it’s the middle of winter. (And our high yesterday was 4.) Even though we have a 11-month-old who’s walking and chattering and into trouble every waking moment of my day. Because when is life ever perfect? When do the stars ever align? If I keep putting off joy - for Natalie, for our family, maybe even for me - won't I regret it?
I'm ready. My husband is ready. Natalie is more than ready.
So I’ll ask. Am I crazy? Or is it love?
*Trixie was not the dog's real name. It was Booty. But if I told you that in the middle of my story, you would have been too distracted by all the snickering to continue.
**Also, I feel you should know that I successfully resisted the strong urge I had to title this post "Who Put The Dogs Out." You're welcome. Merry Christmas.
Kelly also blog at Love Well, although lately, she's been a bit too preoccupied with Petfinder to write much.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Santa Killer
By Kelly
"Santa isn’t real, you know."
So said my seven-year-old daughter to her six-year-old friend as I drove them home from school last week.
It’s funny; I never knew I could drive with my brain splattered on the inside of the windshield.
Trying desperately to stay on the road – I figured the double whammy of a dead Santa plus a car accident would end the new carpool for sure – I shot an alarmed look at the rearview mirror.
Thankfully, MacKenzie was nonchalant. “Oh, I know that,” she retorted, the weariness of the world tinging her voice. “But we saw someone dressed up like him at that house last year.”
Another bullet dodged. But I tell you - I’m starting to feel like Neo at the end of “The Matrix.” At some point, one of those suckers is going to hit home.
After I escorted MacKenzie safely to her front door, I turned to Natalie and raised one eyebrow. “Honey, you know we’ve talked about telling about kids about Santa,” I started.
“I know, Mom,” she sighed. “But sometimes, it just comes out.”
You need to learn to lie, sweetie.
No, I didn’t say that. Not really. But it is a puzzle.
Santa has never been real in our family. From the get-go, we told our kids that Santa Claus is nothing more than a fun story. And for a while, that was that.
Then Natalie started going to school, where she found, to her horror, that some children thought Santa was alive and well. She is a helpful child, a factual child. She can’t rest with the deception.
So we’ve become the Santa killers.
I've tried to impress upon her that some families like to pretend Santa is real. I told her some parents might be very, very upset if she is the one to tell her friends the truth. And she gets that. She does.
But when you're seven, it's hard to navigate the world of white lies.
I think it might be easier if I just keep her in the house until January.
Besides, I have something to tell her about the Tooth Fairy.
All's fair in love and war. And mythological creatures fall under both categories.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, although lately, she's too busy distracting unsuspecting children from her daughter's truthful missives to do much writing.
"Santa isn’t real, you know."
So said my seven-year-old daughter to her six-year-old friend as I drove them home from school last week.
It’s funny; I never knew I could drive with my brain splattered on the inside of the windshield.
Trying desperately to stay on the road – I figured the double whammy of a dead Santa plus a car accident would end the new carpool for sure – I shot an alarmed look at the rearview mirror.
Thankfully, MacKenzie was nonchalant. “Oh, I know that,” she retorted, the weariness of the world tinging her voice. “But we saw someone dressed up like him at that house last year.”
Another bullet dodged. But I tell you - I’m starting to feel like Neo at the end of “The Matrix.” At some point, one of those suckers is going to hit home.
After I escorted MacKenzie safely to her front door, I turned to Natalie and raised one eyebrow. “Honey, you know we’ve talked about telling about kids about Santa,” I started.
“I know, Mom,” she sighed. “But sometimes, it just comes out.”
You need to learn to lie, sweetie.
No, I didn’t say that. Not really. But it is a puzzle.
Santa has never been real in our family. From the get-go, we told our kids that Santa Claus is nothing more than a fun story. And for a while, that was that.
Then Natalie started going to school, where she found, to her horror, that some children thought Santa was alive and well. She is a helpful child, a factual child. She can’t rest with the deception.
So we’ve become the Santa killers.
I've tried to impress upon her that some families like to pretend Santa is real. I told her some parents might be very, very upset if she is the one to tell her friends the truth. And she gets that. She does.
But when you're seven, it's hard to navigate the world of white lies.
I think it might be easier if I just keep her in the house until January.
Besides, I have something to tell her about the Tooth Fairy.
All's fair in love and war. And mythological creatures fall under both categories.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, although lately, she's too busy distracting unsuspecting children from her daughter's truthful missives to do much writing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)