Today, I was trying to get my little ones to get dressed for bed and brush their teeth. They were not terribly interested and my oldest daughter trotted out, "Santa is watching."
My five year old considered this new player. "Mom?" she asked, "Santa may be watching when I'm sleeping and when I'm up and playing...but he doesn't watch when I'm in the bathroom."
I agreed. "Santa understands you need your privacy."
Showing posts with label Santa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Santa. Show all posts
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
REJECTED HALLOWEEN COSTUMES
Rerun from 10/19/08
Having a large family, the costumes themselves often reflect themes. For instance, this year, superheroes seem to rule the roost. So far, I have Batgirl, Wonder woman and Spiderman and Super girl. I was rooting for a full Justice League. Naturally, one contrarian child decided to be Bobafet. Still, the idea of having a coordinated holiday sounded fun to me, so we began brainstorming for next year.
Thus was born, the REJECTED HALLOWEEN THEME COSTUMES for My Family in 2008.
10) Government/Timely: The Supreme Court Justices. Although we would also have a 4-5 split as typified by the current nine judges, few of the children had the judicial temperament necessary to a role on the bench. The temptation to use the gavels for something that could probably get one disbarred or at least, disciplined by a parent would be overwhelming.
9) Religious: Using the parents as well, Moses and the Ten Commandments. Dad would get to be Moses. But when I chose HONOR THY FATHER AND MOTHER, it felt more like an editorial than a costume choice.
8) Sports: The Offensive line of the Redskins. We have no problems internally, but no one was interested and sometimes, they don’t show up.
7) Out of Season: Santa’s eight tiny reindeer plus Rudolph. This was a cute idea, so maybe we’ll save it for a Christmas card.
6) Themes generated because Mom NEEDS to get out more: Pooh Corner, Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends and the entire cast from Green Eggs and Ham.
5) Nominated by Teenaged Son: The Nine left Nimas Morgul on Midsummer’s Eve. (LOTR). Having the nine ring wraiths seemed a bit macabre even for total fans like us. Doing the Fellowship was also problematic because no one wanted to be Boromir or for that matter, Frodo. They’ve seen the movies. “I don’t want to have my finger bitten off.”
4) What’s For Dinner: Using Mom and Dad too, the 11 herbs and spices in the KFC recipe. (Too much cholesterol for the two grownups).
3) Younger Brother Getting Into the Act: The ten pins and a bowling ball. Nixed by Mom for obvious safety reasons.
2) Kirk, Spock, Bones, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Scotty, Nurse Chapel and Yeoman Rand –the original Star Trek series. This one broke down for three reasons. 1) The gender ratio proved too great. 2) None of the girls were willing to be any of the girls other than Uhura. 3) We couldn’t blame them.
1) We’d be Abbot and Costello, and the kids would be Who’s on First, What’s on Second, I don’t Know’s on Third…Today, Tomorrow’s pitching, Why, Because and I Don’t Give a Darn! Then we realized. We never found out what the guy’s name was playing left field.
But then again, What’s on second. I don’t know. Third base!
Happy Halloween is coming, but for a real treat, try.Humor-Blogs.com!
Having a large family, the costumes themselves often reflect themes. For instance, this year, superheroes seem to rule the roost. So far, I have Batgirl, Wonder woman and Spiderman and Super girl. I was rooting for a full Justice League. Naturally, one contrarian child decided to be Bobafet. Still, the idea of having a coordinated holiday sounded fun to me, so we began brainstorming for next year.
Thus was born, the REJECTED HALLOWEEN THEME COSTUMES for My Family in 2008.
10) Government/Timely: The Supreme Court Justices. Although we would also have a 4-5 split as typified by the current nine judges, few of the children had the judicial temperament necessary to a role on the bench. The temptation to use the gavels for something that could probably get one disbarred or at least, disciplined by a parent would be overwhelming.
9) Religious: Using the parents as well, Moses and the Ten Commandments. Dad would get to be Moses. But when I chose HONOR THY FATHER AND MOTHER, it felt more like an editorial than a costume choice.
8) Sports: The Offensive line of the Redskins. We have no problems internally, but no one was interested and sometimes, they don’t show up.
7) Out of Season: Santa’s eight tiny reindeer plus Rudolph. This was a cute idea, so maybe we’ll save it for a Christmas card.
6) Themes generated because Mom NEEDS to get out more: Pooh Corner, Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends and the entire cast from Green Eggs and Ham.
5) Nominated by Teenaged Son: The Nine left Nimas Morgul on Midsummer’s Eve. (LOTR). Having the nine ring wraiths seemed a bit macabre even for total fans like us. Doing the Fellowship was also problematic because no one wanted to be Boromir or for that matter, Frodo. They’ve seen the movies. “I don’t want to have my finger bitten off.”
4) What’s For Dinner: Using Mom and Dad too, the 11 herbs and spices in the KFC recipe. (Too much cholesterol for the two grownups).
3) Younger Brother Getting Into the Act: The ten pins and a bowling ball. Nixed by Mom for obvious safety reasons.
2) Kirk, Spock, Bones, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Scotty, Nurse Chapel and Yeoman Rand –the original Star Trek series. This one broke down for three reasons. 1) The gender ratio proved too great. 2) None of the girls were willing to be any of the girls other than Uhura. 3) We couldn’t blame them.
1) We’d be Abbot and Costello, and the kids would be Who’s on First, What’s on Second, I don’t Know’s on Third…Today, Tomorrow’s pitching, Why, Because and I Don’t Give a Darn! Then we realized. We never found out what the guy’s name was playing left field.
But then again, What’s on second. I don’t know. Third base!
Happy Halloween is coming, but for a real treat, try.Humor-Blogs.com!
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Bittersweet Chocolate for Christmas
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Childhood is often described by adults as ideal. I cannot speak to this except to say perhaps they do not remember it clearly. Most of childhood involved the learning process that occurred after one got a skinned knee. Crawling did not get one where one wanted to go. Walking followed. Followed by falling. The world, one soon discovered, was not padded for one’s protection. Yet, we progressed onward, gaining a few calluses and coping techniques along the way that indicated our preferred method of problem solving, fight or flight.
Just as we became talking, walking, self sufficient individuals, the adults around us would pack us into a singular cage of similarly limited in accomplishment children and ask us to sit and stand on cue as we had never once done at home, for eight hours, five days a week.
Welcome to school, the real world. Surrounded by strangers that may or may not come to love us, who are indifferent to our success or failure, and who might eat our lunches, it was and remains for some of us, a time of trial we tried to forget. I concede, as a parent, I had forgotten.
Around six pm, my middle son, the one who is sly and clever and yet shockingly innocent, said very flatly, “I’ve had a bad day.” He had been picking on everyone since he got in the car but something in his voice said now was not the time to launch into a “If you treated your brother and sisters nicer…” type rant. “What’s up?”
He called me into the kitchen closet. It was a tad cramped and the quarters became less hospitable as three toddlers who knew this was where their two greatest treasures in life were, Mom and food, began trying to break down the door. I signaled we needed a better meeting space. Opening the door, the toddlers rushed in and I handed each of them a cookie and directed their oldest sister to put on a Christmas video. Her emotional antenna must have sensed something too, as she willingly complied and didn’t complain that she didn’t also merit a cookie. I brought him to my room and then to be doubly secure, I locked the door and sat against it.
“Two kids at school told me about where the presents come at Christmas. “ He looked at me and his face was holding the broken grief of childhood prematurely spoiled in one of the smallest of ways, but keenly felt nevertheless. My mom persona felt herself divided into three. The comforter wanted to hold and rock and sing and sooth. The sentimentalist wanted either to lie or to mourn the loss. The Klingon warrior wanted to hunt down those fools and their fool parents and flay them where they stood.
We talked about the real meaning of Christmas; about the miracle of the story that has been told and retold and retold and retold and how it continues to beguile and yet hold generation after generation. The story of Saint Nicholas has come to bring more people to Christ than could possibly be imagined by any of those who thought the story merely a slice of silly pop culture that pushed consumerism. We talked about how important it was to be wise with knowledge, and that the child that told him and others was neither kind nor wise, though he had the opportunity to be both.
My son picked up his new knowledge like a soldier. He let me hold him. I let him decide not to cry but that his eyes bothered him a bit. I told him, “Me too.” That was about all the time we had for a heart to heart before the toddlers, having burned through two more cookies each, decided it was time to find Mom again. My son gave me a brave smile and went out to talk to his younger brother about hanging stockings. He gave me a knowing look as his brother’s eyes lit up like sparklers. “Come on Johnny, we have to find everyone’s stockings!” he announced and the two were off on a brother treasure hunt Christmas style.
It was hard to make dinner now but I plowed through it. Everyone ate. The little ones got bathed and read to and tucked into bed. A song came on the radio, a Christmas song from the Polar Express, and suddenly, the very real feeling of the belief that had just evaporated hurt so hard for me, I felt angry for feeling this intense. My son had resolved the issue better than me I thought. I went upstairs to do the final check of lights out. My son was still up, sitting in the dark not crying. I rubbed his feet and he asked for extra hugs. Some of them felt like he was afraid to let go, for fear some other pillar of childhood might get kicked out from under him if he wasn’t careful.
“I talked to your father about what happened.”
“What did he say?”
“He said to tell you, “He still believes, and so should you.” The squeeze I got back was glorious. “I know what that really means Mom.” He said.
The euphoria of the moment was somewhat interrupted when I spied three drawings on the floor. My son is an artist, always making comic books. Here, graphically illustrated, Boba Fett and several Star Wars Jedi my untrained eyes could not identify, have locked two boys on the island of Misfit Toys. “You have spread bad stories about Santa Claus. Here you will stay and cause no more trouble.” While another jedi, possibly my son, stands by with a thought bubble “Heh heh heh.” The spotted elephant and Charlie the Clown don’t look very friendly to the prisoners. The King of the Toys growls at them.
Justice kid style. I feel better. “Can I keep these?” I ask.
“Sure Mom.”
One more strong squeeze.
“Merry Christmas Son.”
Childhood is often described by adults as ideal. I cannot speak to this except to say perhaps they do not remember it clearly. Most of childhood involved the learning process that occurred after one got a skinned knee. Crawling did not get one where one wanted to go. Walking followed. Followed by falling. The world, one soon discovered, was not padded for one’s protection. Yet, we progressed onward, gaining a few calluses and coping techniques along the way that indicated our preferred method of problem solving, fight or flight.
Just as we became talking, walking, self sufficient individuals, the adults around us would pack us into a singular cage of similarly limited in accomplishment children and ask us to sit and stand on cue as we had never once done at home, for eight hours, five days a week.
Welcome to school, the real world. Surrounded by strangers that may or may not come to love us, who are indifferent to our success or failure, and who might eat our lunches, it was and remains for some of us, a time of trial we tried to forget. I concede, as a parent, I had forgotten.
Around six pm, my middle son, the one who is sly and clever and yet shockingly innocent, said very flatly, “I’ve had a bad day.” He had been picking on everyone since he got in the car but something in his voice said now was not the time to launch into a “If you treated your brother and sisters nicer…” type rant. “What’s up?”
He called me into the kitchen closet. It was a tad cramped and the quarters became less hospitable as three toddlers who knew this was where their two greatest treasures in life were, Mom and food, began trying to break down the door. I signaled we needed a better meeting space. Opening the door, the toddlers rushed in and I handed each of them a cookie and directed their oldest sister to put on a Christmas video. Her emotional antenna must have sensed something too, as she willingly complied and didn’t complain that she didn’t also merit a cookie. I brought him to my room and then to be doubly secure, I locked the door and sat against it.
“Two kids at school told me about where the presents come at Christmas. “ He looked at me and his face was holding the broken grief of childhood prematurely spoiled in one of the smallest of ways, but keenly felt nevertheless. My mom persona felt herself divided into three. The comforter wanted to hold and rock and sing and sooth. The sentimentalist wanted either to lie or to mourn the loss. The Klingon warrior wanted to hunt down those fools and their fool parents and flay them where they stood.
We talked about the real meaning of Christmas; about the miracle of the story that has been told and retold and retold and retold and how it continues to beguile and yet hold generation after generation. The story of Saint Nicholas has come to bring more people to Christ than could possibly be imagined by any of those who thought the story merely a slice of silly pop culture that pushed consumerism. We talked about how important it was to be wise with knowledge, and that the child that told him and others was neither kind nor wise, though he had the opportunity to be both.
My son picked up his new knowledge like a soldier. He let me hold him. I let him decide not to cry but that his eyes bothered him a bit. I told him, “Me too.” That was about all the time we had for a heart to heart before the toddlers, having burned through two more cookies each, decided it was time to find Mom again. My son gave me a brave smile and went out to talk to his younger brother about hanging stockings. He gave me a knowing look as his brother’s eyes lit up like sparklers. “Come on Johnny, we have to find everyone’s stockings!” he announced and the two were off on a brother treasure hunt Christmas style.
It was hard to make dinner now but I plowed through it. Everyone ate. The little ones got bathed and read to and tucked into bed. A song came on the radio, a Christmas song from the Polar Express, and suddenly, the very real feeling of the belief that had just evaporated hurt so hard for me, I felt angry for feeling this intense. My son had resolved the issue better than me I thought. I went upstairs to do the final check of lights out. My son was still up, sitting in the dark not crying. I rubbed his feet and he asked for extra hugs. Some of them felt like he was afraid to let go, for fear some other pillar of childhood might get kicked out from under him if he wasn’t careful.
“I talked to your father about what happened.”
“What did he say?”
“He said to tell you, “He still believes, and so should you.” The squeeze I got back was glorious. “I know what that really means Mom.” He said.
The euphoria of the moment was somewhat interrupted when I spied three drawings on the floor. My son is an artist, always making comic books. Here, graphically illustrated, Boba Fett and several Star Wars Jedi my untrained eyes could not identify, have locked two boys on the island of Misfit Toys. “You have spread bad stories about Santa Claus. Here you will stay and cause no more trouble.” While another jedi, possibly my son, stands by with a thought bubble “Heh heh heh.” The spotted elephant and Charlie the Clown don’t look very friendly to the prisoners. The King of the Toys growls at them.
Justice kid style. I feel better. “Can I keep these?” I ask.
“Sure Mom.”
One more strong squeeze.
“Merry Christmas Son.”
Monday, December 24, 2007
Letter From Santa
My dearest children,
The question arises from age to age as to my actual existence. There comes a time in each person’s life when they must decide if they wish only to be governed by rationality, or if faith plays a role in their everyday being. I am part of that transition, true. I represent the joy and glory and bliss and innocence of childhood at Christmas.
Though I never knelt before the Christ child, I make to Him a present each year, of one day and one night, honoring his birth. I provide an opportunity for people, when more than most pause to consider the past year of blessings, when more than most pine to reconcile with their family and friends, and more than most open their hearts to their neighbors, their spouses, their children, and even to total strangers. Some people even find the most beautiful of presents by opening themselves to God on this day. I travel the world in one night, bringing hope and whimsy and the wish of true peace on Earth, the type of peace the World has never known but secretly pines for at its core.
My story gets told and retold and revisited and reinvented with the nuance and creativity of every age, and each year I do it again and again, willingly and happily, because it brings people to Christ. It brings people together to celebrate. “And wherever two or more are gathered in His name….” I am called Saint Nicholas, Santa Claus and Father Christmas, I have thousands of names beyond Kris Kringle. I am the great facilitator of Christ. People complain that Christmas has become secularized, but more accurately, the secularized world becomes more Christmas’ed each year, as more people celebrate it, even if only with the tree and the dinner and the presents.
I won’t say that Christmas is simply about Love because that’s inaccurate. Christmas is about Christ and Christ IS Love. Christ is MORE LOVE than the world can often tolerate. Yet we desperately need to keep Christmas every day, to welcome Christ into the world via our hearts, our homes and our everyday lives. Welcome to Christmas Day my Children and know that I never stop believing in you.
Merry Christmas
Love, Santa
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