The Trouble with Santa

I never believed in Santa. My sisters and I left cookies and egg nog out on Christmas Eve. We also received gifts under the tree with gift tags that read: 'From Santa.' Yet, I never remember thinking that there was an actual Santa who ate the cookies or left the gifts. I always knew it was my mom and dad. I don't think anyone ever told me Santa wasn't real, but my parents never tried to get us to believe in him. I remember my sisters asking my mom once if Santa was real and she just answered, "What do you think?" In my family, Santa was a fun idea, but not the main focus.

To be clear, I have nothing against the idea of Santa. To me, Santa just stands for the spirit of giving and the enjoyment of giving and receiving gifts. I don't see anything wrong with promoting this spirit. I do, however, have a problem with going out of my way to perpetrate a lie to young, impressionable minds. And therein lies my problem with Santa. Of the very few things on which my husband and I do not agree, Santa is at the top of the list.

In my husband's family, Christmas was all about Santa. All toys received were waiting near the tree on Christmas morning, unwrapped and ready to be played with, as a sign that Santa had just stopped by and left them there to be discovered. Everyone went to great lengths to keep the kids believing as long as possible. My first Christmas with the family, I was warned to not say anything at all about Santa not existing because the nieces still believed. It is not my place to say what other people should or should not tell their children about Santa, but the thought of purposely lying to my own children about this turns my stomach just a little.

So here is my dilemma: What is a confused mom to do? I have never talked about Santa to my kids, but it seems like EVERY PERSON with whom we interact this time of year asks my kids if they are ready for Santa, if they have been good for Santa, what they want from Santa, or any other number of questions involving the jolly old man. On top of that, every TV show the boys watch (with the exception of the amazing and wonderful 'Dinosaur Train') has a Christmas episode seemingly every day about St. Nick. And then, of course, my husband and in-laws constantly talk to the boys about Santa. I don't want to just say to them "Well, Santa isn't real" but I also can't bring myself to tell them he is or talk about him to them at all.

As I've hashed this out in my mind, I think part of the reason I never really "believed" had to do with 'Angel Trees.' You know, the trees with the tags on them with the gender and age of a child in need that people could choose and purchase a gift for. This was a major part of our holiday season growing up. Even the year my dad was unemployed and my parents had to borrow money from my grandparents to make ends meet, we still sponsored an Angel Tree kid (I'm sure they would be horrified to know that I know about the borrowed money, but my parents had apparently never heard the saying "Little pitchers have big ears.") Um... hello? If there really was a Santa, wouldn't he give those kids toys? Why would these kids need us to buy them anything? I love, love, love the tradition of giving to others this way and the 'Angel Tree' is something I've continued with my boys. So... how long before they put all this together?

I just wonder when they find out the truth, if they will question other things we've told them. I don't want to have a conversation where my side sounds something like, "Well, I never believed in Santa, but I let you do it. What? God? Oh yes. God is real. Really. He is." I just don't know. I guess I had always planned to take my mom's approach, but that obviously doesn't work when half the family makes such a big deal of Santa. Luke is already asking how Santa will come down the chimney if there is a fire in the fireplace. He obviously believes.

I guess I just continue focusing on what I feel is important about Christmas -- the joy, the spirit of giving, the time spent together -- and on Jesus, the most important gift of all. And hope that when they realize he's not real, they don't use Santa as a reason to doubt the truth of every other thing we've ever told them.

The Girl with the Red Pea Coat

"Sometimes it's a form of love just to talk to somebody that you have nothing in common with and still be fascinated by their presence." -David Byrne

Note: I totally wish I had thought of that quote. What a great thing to say.

People fascinate me. Well... okay. Some people fascinate me. Some people I cannot understand and honestly do not want to, but a lot of people have something really interesting about themselves. The other day I was at Whole Foods to pick up something for lunch. For the record, the Whole Foods near where I work isn't as bad as some Whole Foods in the rest of the country. (There are hippies who work there, but the area is mostly wealthy corporate men and their stay-at-home wives so it doesn't smell and I've never seen anyone there with dreads. Oh, and also, I don't live near where I work.)

Anyway, I was waiting in line at the Whole Foods deli to get something for lunch and the girl in front of me caught my attention. She was petite and thin, with very short dark hair styled in a black, plastic headband. She had about 8 piercings on her ears, skinny jeans, flats, and a pretty red pea coat. I guess I just noticed her because I was standing there waiting, but I don't know. I was strangely drawn to her. She got her food and left and I placed my order.

I had already forgotten about her by the time I got to the checkout. But as I was getting in my car, I looked up and saw her walking by. She had her deli meal in her hands in front of her, and on top, she had balanced a slice of white cake with white icing and a pastel icing flower. Why did she have that cake? Was she taking it to someone else? Was it her birthday and she had no one with whom to celebrate so she was buying it for herself? Was it a reward for some goal she'd achieved? Maybe she just likes cake? I'm guessing I have little in common with this twenty-something, artsy girl with the cake, but I really wanted to know her story. I really like to learn other people's stories.

Sometimes it seems someone has such a similar story as yours that you are bound to be friends. Then, for whatever reason, you just don't click. There are other people who, as much as they seem nothing like you on the surface, you listen to them and find that you have so much more in common that you could have possibly imagined. I guess that is part of why I love the Byrne quote so much. Learning the story of someone else doesn't make you immediate best friends or even mean you will ever talk to them again. Yet, learning their story does add just a little something to your own experience that wasn't there before. So I guess this is just a reminder to myself. I need to not be so busy and focused on my own life that I forget to listen to what other people have to talk about. I might find something fascinating that enriches my life more than I'd ever expected.

Discontent

It seems like forever ago I wrote my post on unraveling and I really felt like that was the beginning of a journey. That I was going to unravel my life until I made sense of a lot of things. Now I just feel like I'm left holding a huge ball of knotted yarn. I'm not sure if this is just part of the process or if I got off track. I'm not sure if it is my own frustrations, insecurities, and doubts that made this happen or if it is a result of being distracted by circumstances, but I don't feel like it's working out the way I'd envisioned.

Earlier this week, I was reading in II Corinthians 5 in The Message and I came across this:

"Compared to what's coming, living conditions around here seem like a stopover in an unfurnished shack, and we're tired of it! We've been given a glimpse of the real thing, our true home... The Spirit of God whets our appetite by giving us a taste of what's ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts so that we'll never settle for less."

I started this post last week and decided to leave the first part as it was and just continue on from here. The more I've been thinking about that verse, the more I've come to realize that maybe a knotted ball of yarn is okay. Maybe the problem was that I was striving for contentment, striving to feel good about myself. Maybe I was striving to feel like I was doing enough and meeting expectations. I see now how misguided that is.

I'm not meant to be content. This path isn't about contentment or satisfaction. It's about embracing the discontent. It's about pressing on. It's about continuing to pull the string and welcoming the questions so I can explore them. It's about clutching tight to a "live the questions" mentality. And more than anything, it's about realizing that believing in God's promises as I do means I will never be content with the way I am now. I will never be content with settling for less. And that's the way it's meant to be.

I Hate Public Restrooms

Having kids who are potty trained is great. No more expensive diapers. No more picking up your totally cute kid and being grossed out because they smell disgusting. Yes, having kids who wear big-kid undies is great. The only time when having potty trained toddlers/pre-schoolers is not great is when you have to go to a public place. Kids always have to pee (i.e. want to check out the bathroom) when they are somewhere that is not home. So, wherever you go in public, you will have to go to the restroom and invariably that restroom will be gross. And you will be the crazy person repeating "Don't touch that. Don't touch anything. Everything has germs. Don't touch that shiny, silver container on the wall. Don't put up the seat, wait for me to do it with a wad of toilet paper. Don't... don't.... don't. DON'T FLUSH THE TOILET WITH YOUR HAND! Seriously? That's why God gave us feet!"

I'm not sure of why most public restrooms have to be so disgusting. I worked for years at a restaurant where the facilities had to be cleaned every shift. Sure, maybe they weren't as clean as your home bathroom after a thorough scrubbing and disinfecting, but they were pretty darn clean. I have only been in maybe one or two other public restrooms that were that clean. Most public restrooms, especially the ones in grocery stores, seem to have been there (without being cleaned) since before the store was even built. Everything is dark and dirty and dingy and looks like the one attempt they have ever made at cleaning it was abandoned half-way through.

I realize this is probably over-sharing, but I have always hated public restrooms. I always 'hover' instead of sitting right on the seat. I turn the faucet with my wrist and I open the door with a paper towel on my way out. Just knowing that so few people wash their hands grosses me out and makes me want to don a hazmat suit just to enter public facilities. Before I had kids I would even 'hold it' until I got home if possible, just to avoid having to risk a public restroom. Sadly that is no longer possible since when a kid says they have to go, you'd better take them or you will likely end up spending your evening wrestling the padding off their car seat so it can be washed and the frame scrubbed down.

I know that I should be glad that we now have indoor plumbing and we don't have to duck into the bushes or use an outhouse, but really? Is it really too much to ask that places with public restrooms invest in someone who actually knows how to clean and the proper cleaning supplies that person needs? Gross. Now I have completely grossed myself out writing about this and I don't want to go anywhere with my kids until they learn to hold it.

A Tiny House

My parents still live in the same house where I grew up. I went there a couple weeks ago and my dad was showing me that they got new shingles on the roof. I stood near the road and admired the new roof and could not believe how tiny that house looks to me now. Seriously... it is one of those very tiny houses built in the early 1950's for the parents of the baby boom. A kitchen, a bathroom, a family room, two tiny bedrooms, and a one-car garage that was later consumed into the house for a small dining room and extra bath/laundry room. The people who owned it before my parents also divided the family room in half with a hollow wall so there could be an extra bedroom. Just a very few, few very tiny rooms.

I never knew I grew up in a tiny house until I was in high school and visited the palatial houses of friends of friends. These were houses with mud rooms and his-and-hers offices and work-out rooms and dens and studios and craft rooms and at least three guest rooms and rooms that no one ever used yet were still adorned with beautiful matching furniture. It was then I knew that I grew up in a tiny house. But I think that at some level even then, through my well-concealed embarrassment, I knew that growing up in a tiny house with love was better than growing up in any-size house with expectations and family secrets and agendas instead of love.

My parents house is made of brick and has red sidewalks. I'm not sure who thought red sidewalks were a good idea, but that is one of the main things I remember of the exterior of that house. I'm have no idea where it is now, but I can see the photo in my mind. My sister Tiffiny and I are sitting in the grass, both wearing halos made of white clover, and my knees are red. Partly from the scabs and partly from the stain the sidewalk left when I fell on it and caused the scabs. Red sidewalks are a terrible idea, but will always mean childhood and skinned knees in my mind.

Why am I rambling about tiny houses and red sidewalks? I really meant for this post to be about my family. My family can drive me completely crazy, but there is nothing like a good hug from my dad or a long talk with my mom. With Thanksgiving coming up, I've been thinking about the things that make me feel thankful. I think I'm thankful for many of the same things other Americans are thankful for, like freedom and my job and food and a home to live in. But one of the things I'm most thankful for is my family.... certainly Ryan and the boys, but also my sisters and my parents and the love I knew growing up. That is not something everyone had and I am so thankful it is something I experienced when I was younger and still know today. Despite how tiny the house is I grew up in.

Peripheral

Sometimes we just lose things along the way. Maybe more important things take the place of those things. Maybe we block them out. Maybe we are careless and forget. I wish I knew so I could prevent it at will, because it seems like I've somehow lost my ability to write. Okay, I am writing right now. I'm typing and words are forming on the screen, but I don't want to just write. I want to write something good. Something meaningful or witty or amusing or insightful. I've been trying, but it's not happening. Somewhere in all my working like a crazy person to meet deadlines and worrying about sick kids and sadness over co-workers losing their jobs and lots of other things I won't list out here, I lost it. I hope I find it again soon, because this is getting pretty darn frustrating.

On a completely random and unrelated note, it was an amazingly beautiful day today. Sunny and crisp and almost 70 degrees. If I had only one wish (after wishing for a million more wishes, of course) I would wish that all of winter in Ohio would be like today. Except for maybe the week of Christmas, which could be 30 and sunny and snowy. I think many things would be much improved with more days like today between October 1st and springtime. Maybe I could even find some inspiration for writing. *sigh*

So here is one poem I've managed to come up with. I'm not happy with it, but I need to get back to posting some poetry. Here ya go:


My eyes keep shifting.
Not shifty.
Just shifting to
look at something
previously marginalized
but now screaming
for attention.
Something
formerly peripheral.
Now I see it
in focus.

My Poor Blog

I now have 21 drafts waiting to be finished and posted. Sure, some of them are just a quote or a partial poem with a few random thoughts, but it's kind of depressing. I sit down and start to write and I just hit a wall. Every time. It's really frustrating so I try not to think about it. But not thinking about it just makes it worse, I think.

I thought about doing another 'Write Every Day' month, but I know with the holidays coming up that is way too much pressure and frustration to heap on myself. I think the pressure of having to post every day was good for me because it forced me to post things I would normally not finish (or post even if I considered it finished). Sometimes I go back and read those things and realize they weren't as terrible as I had originally thought. But since the post-every-day is off the table until January, I'm not sure of what to do to get over the proverbial hump. I need to come up with something. I was doing pretty well there for a while, even if the content of most of my posts was just silly, rambling nonsense intermixed with some poems.

So... okay. I'm going to try to make myself post twice a week until January. That seems reasonable, right? Especially since this is Monday and I only have to come up with one more post for the week.