The Santa Issue

I love Santa Claus.  I love Christmas, and Santa is one of the main symbols of the season, so I love him.  He's chubby, he has a red nose, he loves cookies and milk, he enjoys snow and toys, and red is his favorite color.  We have a great deal in common, Santa and I.  But Santa is causing me some concern lately.

A is in 4th grade.  J is in 3rd.  I have a funny feeling that J might not believe in Santa, but he is keeping quiet about it for fear that if he questions Santa, the Santa gifts will stop showing up Christmas morning.  A believes in him 100 percent, and that's sort of stressing me out.  It's a wonderful thing to see in a child, that unabashed belief in magic, but at some point he's going to have to learn the truth, and it's breaking my heart to think about it.  I don't want him to be the weirdo that's getting beat up in high school because he still believes in Santa, and I think he's approaching a good age for the talk.  Hubby and I have decided that this year if he asks us or approaches us to talk about it, we'll have the talk with him.  We've talked about how to break it to him, and we have some good ideas, but I have a bad feeling about it.

When my Nephew3 learned about Santa, it broke his little heart.  He cried and cried, and acted like he had been deceived and Christmas was ruined.  It was AWFUL for my brother and SIL1.  I have a feeling that's what it's going to be like for A, and I'm not looking forward to it.  Nephew3 was over it rather quickly, but still.  Yuck.

When we explain it all to A, we're hoping to tell him that Santa is real, but not the way he thinks he is.  He's a real symbol of giving and of magic, and that Christmas is magic and still can be.  We'll tell him that now he's in the league of grown ups when it comes to Santa, and it is now his responsibility to carry on the magic of Santa in all the kids younger than him, and to help them continue to believe, so Christmas will stay magical for the little ones.  We will tell him that Santa won't stop coming to our house on Christmas Eve, but now he can stop trying to stay up so he can see him.  Hopefully that will all help cushion the blow.

When I was in 4th grade, I learned about Santa.  I think I already kind of knew, deep down, that he wasn't real, but I wasn't positive.  I asked my mom that December in the kitchen.  She told me the truth.  But she did it in such a kind way, and in a way that allowed me to continue to believe in the magic of Santa, even if I knew a chubby man didn't sneak into our house into the middle of the night every Christmas Eve.  She told me that it was my responsibility to help the magic continue for my sister, who is five years younger than me.  So I was okay about it, and believe me--I was a fervent believer.  But look at me know!  It certainly did not destroy Christmas for me.

I have to tell my little story about one of the reasons A is such a believer.  Five years ago, we were at the State Fair.  It was a magical year there anyway, as it was the last year we were there with my mother in law, and that was one of her favorite places to be.  Many amazing things happened that day, and this was one of them.  We were all over at the band shell to take a break and watch a band.  I was trying to assemble my little family on one of the benches, probably hollering out their names and telling them to come over and sit down.  All of a sudden we hear this, "Is that you, A (using his full name)? And your brother J?"  We look over, and SANTA CLAUS IS SITTING ON A BENCH FOUR ROWS BACK!  He is dressed in cargo shorts, suspenders, and a short sleeved shirt with a Christmas print all over it.  My kids' jaws dropped to the ground.  "Come over here, you two, I need a word with you!"  The three of us walk back to him, there's a walking stick leaning against the bench next to him that looks like a giant peppermint stick.  He tells my kids that he's been getting reports that they've been behaving wonderfully this year, and that he's very proud of them.  He says that if he continues to listen to their parents and be good to each other, then they should be very happy with what he brings them for Christmas!  Then he gives them each a business card, which on one side says, "Santa Claus--North Pole" and on the other side it just has a picture of him posing with some elves in his workshop.  He also gives them a little peppermint, shakes their hands, and send us back to our seats.

This is the Santa we saw at the Fair.
He's magic.

It was magic, and I was in tears.  That man cemented my kids' believe in Santa, and gave us a moment I will remember forever.  I found out who he was, and later discovered he has a website (which is very cool, by the way).  I was able to e-mail him and tell him how much that moment meant to us.

So anyway, Santa is kind of a big deal to me, and I don't want to handle this wrong.  I guess I should have faith in the magic of Christmas, and that it will be o.k. no matter what.

My Funk

There are days, and yesterday was one of those days, when I sit down here to write, and a bunch of stupid crap comes out of my brain.  I then delete everything I wrote, look at the blank screen for a bit, and then just get up and walk away.

I was in a funk yesterday.  At first I thought it was because I had to go to another funeral.  It was for my great uncle, and I was not close to him, although I am very close to his son and his family.  Funerals are always sad occasions, but somehow when my family is with that branch of the family we always find things to laugh about.  So it was a healthy thing.  Sometimes my family is so goofy I feel like we would make such great subjects for a Modern Family style show.  I mean, we are all so very different from each other, and there's a lot of drama, but most of the time it's good comedy.  And sometimes it's so bizarre it seems like you couldn't make it up, it's too crazy.

But I stayed in a funk.  I don't know what's going on with me.  I was riddled with self-doubt yesterday.  After thinking about it, it may have started with the mess with A up at the cabin, but I can't be sure.  I do this to myself sometimes.  I start thinking, I'm not a good parent.  And I think I just get myself worked up so that I can turn everything into an attack on myself.  We were talking about money, and the economy, and instead of just conversing about it with the hubby, I'm thinking to myself, "I don't contribute to this family.  I should get a job.  I'm worthless and lazy."  I'm feeling bloated from all the excesses of Thanksgiving and the fact that I haven't been active lately, and instead of going for a walk, I sit on the couch and think, "I'm so ginormous.  I would never be able to lose all this extra weight.  I would fail if I tried anyway."  So I sit and stew all day about how unappealing and unworthy I am.

I do this to myself more than I care to admit, and I'm not sure how to shake it.  I feel a bit better today, it's a new day.  Sometimes I have to look around and very purposefully count my blessings and find things to be proud of.  My hubby must see something in me, because he certainly still loves me.  And I really wish I could see myself through my kids' eyes.  They think I'm pretty great, actually.  See, but right there--I was just about to type, "I must have them snowed."  Instead of, "so I must be doing all right."  My first instinct is always some kind of self doubt.  Augh!

I do need to take better care of myself.  I need to set a better example for my kids.  Mostly, I never want them to feel this way, so I need to show them how we should be proud of ourselves, and have some self respect.  I write this blog because it's therapeutic and fun for me.  Not because I think it's great literature.  Sometimes my posts may be interesting, sometimes they may be lame.  Who cares?

I'm going to get bundled up and go outside for a walk after the bus leaves.  That'll clear my head.  

Thanksgiving Perfection. One Minor Hiccup.

Our Thanksgiving was AWESOME.  We had the whole bunch up at the Fawcett House in Breezy Point Resort where we stayed for three nights, laughing, playing games, drinking, eating, chatting, sleeping, and just enjoying one another.  It was so cool.  The house was amazing.  There were hallways with bedrooms everywhere, great hide and seek places.  

The kids had a blast.  

We had happy hour for free every night across the street from the house.  We prepared an amazing Thanksgiving meal right there in the kitchen.  We said our prayer and had a nice toast.  There were fireplaces, candles, and no drama.  We went on our big walk right after dinner to make room for our pie.  

We had a free breakfast buffet every morning at the restaurant across the street.  We went in to the darling town of Nisswa to do some shopping on Friday.  It truly was as good as everyone was thinking it would be, and I am so grateful to my mom for making it happen.  It was warm, happy, and food-filled, a fine tribute to my dad.  We had a picture of him on the table, and we had a picture of him carving a turkey on the counter.  

There was one glitch.  And I'm still shaken from it, and I'm trying to figure out how to recover from it.  

My kids had been looking forward to this trip since the day we found out about it (as I learned from A, for "three weeks and one day").  Especially A.  He loved the place so much he didn't want to leave it.  The first night we were there we left for a short while to go see my sister's house and where she worked, and that didn't go so well.  A just wanted to be back at the big house.  The next morning I had to have some stern words with him because he was all grumpy at breakfast.  After we talked about it, he told me that he was just looking forward to being at the house so much that he didn't want to leave--couldn't he just have breakfast at the house?  So I decided that if we were just going to be going across the street to eat or whatever, he didn't have to go anymore.  He knew where we were if he needed us.  He did go with us into Nisswa and enjoyed it very much, but he had brought his birthday money and wanted to spend it.

So anyway, we get to Saturday morning.  Yesterday.  We're all packing up, getting ready to go.  Checkout is at noon.  We decide to run over for our last breakfast.  A does not want to go.  I decide I won't make him.  He just wants to hang out on the comfy couch and drink cocoa and watch Spongebob.  So I tell him: if you need anything, you know where we are--just come get me.  And we go over.  I don't think too much about it.

I'm not gone long--perhaps a half hour.  I head back to the house because I can't breathe and I need my nasal spray.  Nephew1 and his best friend who had come along on our trip meet me at the door.  A is on the couch looking upset.  Nephew1 tells me that A got locked out of the house and somebody brought him to the resort front desk (just the next building over on the street) where they saw him because they were at the gift shop there.  I go over to him and he's cold and shaken up, and then I get the whole story:

He decided to go out and get a root beer.  We had kept all the pop outside on the front porch because it was like a refrigerator.  The door shut behind him.  He didn't know he needed the key card to get back inside.  So there he is, outside on the wet cold morning, in his socks, and he can't get in.  He walked through the grass and mud around the whole perimeter of the building trying all the doors, and he couldn't get in.  So he was panicking.  He says he didn't think he should come get me in the restaurant because he wasn't wearing his shoes.  So he's out there panicking.  Then a couple drive up in their car and ask if he's ok.  He says he's locked out of the house.  They ask where his family is.  He says, "at breakfast."  They ask where.  He says he doesn't know, because he didn't know the NAME of the restaurant!  The decide to take him to the front desk so they offer him a pair of gloves, and drive him to the front desk where he runs into Nephew1 and his friend.  

That's the jist of the story, and he's fine now.  He's over it, and thank God he's okay.  But people, here's my issue that I cannot get over--he got in their car.  HE GOT INTO THE CAR OF A STRANGER!  All I can think about is Jacob Wetterling and all the kids like him.  I was near hysterical.  I was crying so hard, hugging him so tight.  I tried to talk to him yesterday about getting in cars with strangers, and it's so hard to make him understand.  He processes things so differently from a normal child, and explaining things like that can be so difficult.  He thought, they weren't strangers because they were trying to help him!  I'm grateful for the nice people that helped him out.  I don't know who they are.  I know there are more good people in the world than evil.  But there is evil out there, and my A is a vulnerable kid.

I felt like a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad parent yesterday.  I felt so low.  So ashamed.  So guilty.  He's 10, but I still should not have left him.  I was across the street!  But I left him.  I had told him what to do if he needed me!  But I left him.  I left him.  Alone.  I feel like I can never do that again.  And I feel like I don't deserve him.  Everything is fine.  But it could have gone so very wrong.  It could have happened.  And it would be my fault.  I left him.  My baby.  

My Closet Love for Bloodsuckers

I have to come clean about something that I haven't talked about on here yet.  Over the months that I have been writing this blog, I have felt the love from my little group of readers, so I feel like I can say this without fear of too much harsh judgment:

I am a Twilight fan.

O.K., it's out there.  It shouldn't be a painful thing to admit, but it is.  It is, primarily because I am not a 13-year old girl.  And because I LOVE a good book.  And these, folks, are not good books.  And to be quite honest, the movies are sort of horrible.  But I love them, and it almost makes me feel dirty.

I started reading the first book during the media tour for the first movie.  I just wanted to see what all the dang hype was about.  Five days later I had read all four books.  I could not put them down.  And not because of the riveting writing, but because the story strikes a chord.  It is every girl's fantasy.  And they are easy to read.  They are like candy.  Cheap candy.  Like Skittles that you can't stop eating, even after your saliva has turned into Jello and the insides of your cheeks are all chewed up.  I mean, I abandoned my kids during the days that I read those books the first time.  (Yes, I said the first time.  Judge away, people).

So then I did the only thing a rational woman can do.  I had to get someone else hooked on them so I could talk about my shame with someone.  So I called my poor sister and got her hooked.  It was like giving someone their first joint.  I feel terrible about it and delighted at the same time.

And then the movies started coming out.  The first movie is crap.  Some of the casting is way off, the directing is a joke, it looks low budget, the acting is subpar.  And I loved every second of it.  It's like a drug to me (oops.  Inside joke to the people who share in my shame.)  Sister and I talk about it, and we call it Delicious Garbage.  And that's exactly what it is.  We have started a tradition with these movies where she comes into town (she lives several hours away) for a night when the movie comes out--not the first night, because we don't need to share our experience with that crowd--but during the first week.  We go out to a nice restaurant and get dinner and adult beverages.  Usually it's something like a scotch so we can reassure ourselves that we're grown ups.  Then we go to the movie and turn into dorky teenage girls, taking every scene personally.  It's so ridiculous!  But it's one of my favorite things to do.  We have a great time, and I love that I am so comfy and myself when we hang out.  So that may be why this dang series is so special for me.

Anyway, last night we went to see the first installment of the last film, Breaking Dawn.  Already I'm fighting the irritation that they had to break the last book into two movies, as if they are like Harry Potter.  Folks, there aren't many people around who are bigger fans of Harry Potter than I am.  That is great literature.  And great movies.  And I don't normally believe that Twilight and Harry Potter belong in the same paragraph, much less in the same dimension, but I'm only doing this to say I was worried that they were trying to be like my Harry Potter.

I feel pretty good about it.  It honestly was the best of the movies so far.  I had heard so much crap about this movie, such as "it's slower than turtle sex" and worse.  My expectations were exceedingly low.  But this one was the truest to the books so far.  The two main characters FINALLY get it on, and that scene did not disappoint.  I believe that, best of all, they tried very hard to be true to their twihards.  There were a couple scenes in it that were groanworthy bad, like the dang CGI wolf conversation, but it is Twilight, after all.  My sister and I were basically just hoping it was better than the original Clash of the Titans, the bar for which all wonderful horrible movies can be compared.  And it held up.  Granted, it would have been hard for me to be disappointed due to my low expectations, but I really did enjoy it.  Pretty people.  More laughter.  Beautiful scenery.  And the music was GREAT!  So it was fun, and I don't care who says otherwise.

Okay so tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  I'm off to my family adventure, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to check in very soon.

So I want to wish you all a warm and blessed Thanksgiving.  Take a few minutes to go be alone in a quiet space, and really think about your blessings.  Thank God for the gifts in your life.  Embrace your families, with all their flaws, frustrations, and drama.  Love them.  Laugh with them.  Eat WAY too much food.  And as soon as you're physically able, eat some more.  Make a toast to something.  Stay safe.  Watch some football.  When everyone's busy eating, take a Clark Griswold moment to look around at the people you're with and be in the moment.  Remember to honor traditions.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I'm Getting a Cold. What Timing!

Allow me to apologize in advance if this post makes no sense.  It's very early, and I feel like I have socks in my nose.   There's probably little sparkles floating around my head like in the cartoons.

I'm a little worried.  I have the big Thanksgiving extravaganza coming up and my nose has been completely plugged up for two days and I have a tickle in my throat that feels a bit foreboding.  I do NOT have time to be sick, people!  I'm not sure what to do, chug a bunch of orange juice and carry nasal spray are the only things I can think of.  And keep my fingers crossed.  I don't get sick very often, and it's been a really long time since I have been, so maybe I'm due.  But come on!

So who's going out for Black Friday?  I did once.  Several years ago, my sister, SIL1, and I did the early Black Friday morning.  I remember thinking it was going to be fun, getting up in the middle of the night (basically), grabbing a coffee, and meeting the ladies in the parking lot of Kohl's (our first stop).  It was very cold, and very crazy.  As I recall, we all got a few things as we trudged from store to store, but it wasn't that amazing.  And there are some crazy ladies out there!  We all decided that we were glad we did it so we could check it off our list, but it's something we don't need to do again.  I think you really have to know what you're doing to get anything out of it.  You have to really know what the retailers are going to sell, what you need, and who you're gifting it to.  We probably weren't that organized.  I've now become much more of an online bargain hunter.  Black Friday and the whole Thanksgiving weekend, I'm able to find lots of good stuff on line, all while staying in my warm house in my jammies, and waiting for it to magically appear at my door.  Lovely.

I do love to Christmas shop, though.  I think I just do it differently.  I like to casually go to stores in the Christmas season, especially little cute shops, and just wander and enjoy looking at stuff.  And if I see something for someone, I do.  If not, it's still a nice time.  And I like to shop at malls at Christmas time and wear my Santa hat, as long as it's during a weekday and I don't have a long list of stuff I have to get.  I hate stressy shopping.  Christmas shopping should be pleasant.  With yummy coffee, Christmas music playing on the speakers, and finishing with a nice meal with someone.  That's what I love.  And I especially love to Christmas shop with my mom, because we do it the same way.  It's part of my whole tradition.

So here we are, I have no time to do any Christmas shopping before Thanksgiving, and I think I have a total of two little gifts done, from a list of about 40 people I need to shop for.  So it will be a busy, but hopefully lovely, shopping month for me in December.

And this is all assuming I can keep this cold at bay.  Right now I cannot breathe out of either nostril, and it's very frustrating.  I will be very busy today, but the evening is going to be topped off with a lovely outing that I will write about tomorrow.

I have to get some nasal spray.

By the way:  I'd like to wish my Great Uncle Tim godspeed on his way up to Heaven, and I hope it's some comfort to his immediate family that my dad will be there to shake his hand.

My Peaceful Boy-Filled Life

My kids are doing this thing lately that's driving me INSANE.  It's the whiny, high-pitched, arguing with each other.  They fight about the most inane things.  Who gets to hold the remote.  Who gets to be the Vikings when they play Madden.  Who touched who in the backseat.  And it's the tone of it all that really gets to me.

I know this is a universal thing.  I remember my parents being driven to the edge of sanity by our squabbling.  I have little to no patience for it.  And the worst thing is, sometimes I find myself basically joining in!  I have actually been involved in heated discussions over who's turn it is to pick what channel they get to watch.  It's horrible how long it takes me to realize how idiotic this is and to just withdraw from the whole issue.  I have to remind myself that I'm never going to completely stop them from pick-pick-picking, but I at least don't have to be involved.  I'm trying a new approach lately--when I hear them doing that I tell them to go upstairs if they need to continue this discussion because I don't need to listen to it.  That usually gets them to stop for a while because it's silly to go upstairs to continue fighting.  Ha!

The worst is when we're in the car.  I have a little Focus, it's a tiny little thing, and when they're arguing it becomes like a torture chamber.  I feel like my brain is swelling.  And there are so many times when we're riding along, me in the passenger seat, the hubby driving, and I have the two goofballs in the back fighting about who gets to hold whatever piece of crap they're holding at the moment, kicking at each other and wriggling around like toddlers, and the hubby in the front seat, oblivious to it all, trying to give me his latest take on current events.  I'm sitting in my seat, desperately trying to listen to what hubby's talking about so I'm not rude, trying to ignore the kids because I can't stomach hollering at them for the 17th time in five minutes, and feeling like I'm literally about to explode.  Then I finally freak out, scream at the kids to knock it off, and look at my hubby like I'm trying to pay attention to him.  He usually just looks at me like I'm the crazy one, and why am I so grumpy?  Augh!

The particular career my hubby has chosen is one in which he is required to be able to focus on his task no matter what the environment around him is like.  So he is able to laser focus on things--the tv, his current conversation, whatever website he's looking at--and not be distracted no matter what.  I swear, the house could be burning around him, and if he's paying attention to something else, he'd burn up in the blaze.  I cannot do that.  If I am talking to someone, I can't concentrate if there's screaming kids in the background.  I think he gets frustrated by my lack of patience with those situations, but I am bewildered by his ability to shut things out.  Maybe it's just a guy thing.  But still, it makes me bonkers.

Here we are, entering the joyous holiday season.  We have our first coating of snow on the ground.  We got our lights up outside the house yesterday.  We should be all peace and harmony, right?  But alas, I have young boys.  And a hubby.  Sometimes I feel so outnumbered by boys I feel like I need to run away to a spa.  Even though I don't think I would enjoy a spa--I'm not one who would like facials and massages.  But I got out for a dinner with SIL1 last night, and it was delightful.  And oh so necessary.  Then this morning it was back to refereeing the little sweeties.  Funny how one night out can make me feel like I have the strength to put up with the men in my life for a longer time.  I love my men.  I really do.  But sometimes I get lost in it all.

Bittersweet Anniversary

Yep, that's my parents.

Yesterday was my parents' 44th anniversary.  My brother and I went to the cemetery with my mom where she laid a rose at my dad's grave.  It was so sad.  My dad is buried under the same stone as my baby brother, and the stone is still just my brother, with a temporary marker for my dad until the new stone is there.  There is still a rectangle of dirt from the fresh grave, with grass seed that will hopefully take hold next spring.  And now there is a lovely red rose there, a symbol of a wife grieving, unable to go out to dinner with her man to celebrate 44 years together.  It's too devastating to think about for too long.  I have a hard time with grief, and I always feel a pressure to bottle it up.  It's hard to watch my mom be in so much pain, and I have this overwhelming need to take care of her.  But it's healthy for her to feel this, to go through this process.  I think she's doing it in a much healthier way than I am.  I don't know if I've even dealt with the whole thing yet.  I stand there, hurting for her, but I have this need to just ignore the hurt, push it away, distract myself from it.  Run away.  It was her anniversary.  44 years ago yesterday she married him.  And through thick and thin, they loved each other.  They depended on each other.  They were life partners in every way, best friends, soul mates.  And it must be so difficult to face life without him.  I hope she's able to feel the joy of her wedding day, to remember the happiness and allow it to comfort her.

As we move toward Thanksgiving I worry for her.  I know this is going to be such a fun time, our whole crew hanging out at a big old cabin for a few days.  I hope we can honor my dad, enjoy his memory, and help my mom through her sad times.  I hope I can help in an honest way, without feeling the need to change the subject or run from the pain.  I wish I was stronger emotionally.  I'm afraid of my own pain, afraid of my kids seeing me hurt, of anyone but my hubby seeing me hurt.  My mom lets it all out, and I respect that about her.  Emotion can be a beautiful thing, no matter what it is.  We hurt so much because we love so much.  And that's a good thing.

After we left the cemetery yesterday, we went out for lunch at a Mexican place.  That was dad's favorite kind of food, so we figured that's where he would have wanted to go if he was here.  I think it was nice, I know it was good for my mom.  But every time we do something like that it's hard to see her drive off afterward.  I don't want her to be alone.  But I know she has to be sometimes, she's learning her new normal, and she's determined to find her way.  I can't help but wonder how I would be if I lost my hubby.  It's hard to even allow the thought into my brain, because I don't know how I would survive.  Every time he's gone at work, especially in the evenings, if he's not home when I expect him to be my mind immediately goes wandering to very dark places.  His car is in a ditch.  Stuff like that.  I have worried like that since we got married, and it never goes away.   I don't know if it's normal, but I can't help it.  Just like when the kids were babies I used to go in their rooms if they were sleeping too peacefully and feel for their breath coming out of their little noses to make sure they were still breathing.  It's so dark and twisted, but I'm always worried someone is going to die.  And I don't know how we are able to survive such loss, but I guess people do.  My mom will.

Now there's all these reminders that it's our first holiday season without dad.  I made my list yesterday for gift shopping.  I hated not writing his name down.  When I send things to my mom's place, I hate writing only her name on the envelope.  Things are just different.

But we can still be happy.  The people I have lost do not want us to sit and stew in sadness.  They want us to feel joy, to feel silly, and to celebrate our lives.  So yesterday my mom was sad.  But she was also celebrating the 44 years she was able to spend with her husband, the father of her kids, the man who made her laugh almost every single day.  He enriched her life.  And during our holidays we will celebrate our lives, our health, and the traditions we have built over the years, traditions that would be so much different were it not for my dad and for the other loved ones we have lost along the way.  And if I were up in Heaven, looking down at all my loved ones, I would hope that they would be loving their lives.  Drinking a peppermint martini in my honor on Christmas Eve, and going along with their lives, still laughing, still feeling satisfaction, and enjoying regular moments.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.