So…you know what’s worse than disagreeing with somebody’s opinion on the latest parenting controversy?

Realizing you don’t have an opinion on the issue because it never occurred to you to give a shit.

Um, yes.

That’s where I stand with the whole Santa controversy.

[And yes, there is a controversy, friends. And it’s a big one.]

Well, maybe not that big, you know, compared to like world hunger or something, but still. It’s pretty big. Big enough to warrant at least 9 thousand blog posts and Facebook discussions.

Some people, evidently, think he’s creepy. Like pedophile creepy. Something about old man, kids on laps, bribing, etc. Mmmmkay. I’m not going into this. Next topic.

Others “can’t stand lying to their kids that way.” Oh come the fuck on. You don’t lie to your kids? Whatever. YOU DO TOO. “Mommy, what were you and daddy doing last night after we went to bed and I heard those sounds coming from your room?” “Um, uh…we were…um…reading the Communist Manifesto. Loudly. In intervals.”

Shiiiiit.

Some people hate the materialistic part of it all. You know. Gifts and crap and whatnot and rewarding good behavior with stuff and bad behavior with, well, stuff. I suppose I can sort of get behind that one except that I can’t, because I like showering my kids in crap from Walmart and I often resort to bribing them. I mean I try not to, cause that’s some seriously shitty parenting (so they say), but when I’m in a bind, I’ll go there. I will.

And we’re all still breathing.

And then other people love the fantasy and play of Santa and think it’s all magical and shit.

But check this out. The only thing that crossed my mind as I read all these passionate diatribes for or against the fat gift-wielding man was “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…(blank space and stares)….oopsy! Forgot to think about that one!” And…Guess that’s one more parenting approach I haven’t considered at all and thanks A LOT for making me wonder if I have damaged my kids ONE MORE TIME in ONE NEW WAY because I didn’t make a conscious decision about Christmas traditions but pretty much just continued the traditions of my family with no forethought, insight or contemplation.

Yes, I admit it.

I have not deconstructed Santa.

I have not considered the implications, insinuations, assumptions or underlying messages contained in the gift-giving crap extravaganza that is our Christmas. I like it. It’s fun. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.

I did not consider the long-term effects of my lying about who deposits stuff under the tree. I pretty much just did it.

Oops.

My bad.

But I’m gonna level with ya. If my kids end up hating me for being a crap parent with poor ideals and pitiable execution, I can promise you it won’t be over the whole Santa thing. I have done so much worse than that.

My yelling alone pales the threat of any long-term Santa-induced trauma.

Easily 5 years of therapy material right there.

And then there’s my mouth and the incredibly poor decision-making surrounding it. For example, last summer I told my (then) 5-year-old son about bears and “friendly” ghosts (look, it’s a long story and it’s complicated.). But really. Who the hell does that? That was a baaaadddd choice.

I didn’t think about it beforehand. I MADE A MISTAKE.

So you can see why I’m just gonna let the whole Santa thing go.  Other people can worry about that sort of thing.

I have much bigger fucking fish to fry.

For example, figuring out how to not tell my kids stories that scare the crap out of them for a year.

Or really, thinking before I talk at all would be nice.

Now THAT would be a gift.

And I don’t care who fucking brings it. Incidentally, I don’t think my kids would either.

Maybe Santa will hook that up next year. He is real, isn’t he? He better be. My mama told me he was. And she never lies! She said he WAS REAL! HE MUST BE REAL! Why are you looking at me like that? Did she lie? Did the evil bitch LIE TO ME ALL THESE YEARS about Santa Claus? Oh agony! Oh pain! I CAN’T FACE MY LIFE NOW THAT I KNOW MY MOM TOLD ME A STORY ABOUT AN IMAGINARY MAN, CHIMNEYS AND GIFTS.

I shall not recover!

My inner child is weeping.

Okay that was fun.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.

Dear Animal Killer,

So you’ve successfully killed 5 cats and one small dog. In the middle of the night you put blue fly poison in Tupperware containers around our neighborhood and what success you’ve had! Bravo, you fucking waste of human life.

I just want to tell you that one of the cats you killed belonged to my little boy, Rocket. He is 6 years old and had his young kitty, “Play-Doh”, for about 6 weeks when we found him dead in our backyard, with a blue substance dribbling out of his mouth.

We thought it was a fluke. We thought he got into antifreeze or something. Though intentional poisoning crossed our minds, we didn’t really think it possible. We have such nice neighbors. The police told us yesterday that all the animals who have died (4 other cats and one Miniature Pincer) have been found with the same blue substance coming out of their mouths.

A year ago, when Play-Doh died, we told our son about it and he shook with grief. We didn’t tell him he could have been poisoned. We told him he died because he was sick.

Because how the fuck are we going to explain that YOU EXIST? That YOU KILLED his animal because you murder things for fun, or revenge, or insanity, or whatever it is that makes a person obliterate life at random.

Do you realize you’re killing pets? Do you realize you’re killing the little animal friends of children and old people and everyday people who cuddle with those animals and curl up with them when they’re sick and watch T.V. with them on their laps and give them a pat when they come home from work each day?

Do you realize all that?

They say you’re a drunk and get into dark places and kill cats.

I say get some help you worthless fuck.

Because the poison you’re using is supposed to be used only in auction yards and livestock farms – where no children or small animals are present –because it burns human skin and can kill children if ingested, even in tiny amounts.

So one of these days you could maim or kill a kid, Einstein. A real, live kid.

Does that mean more to you? Do you care more about that? Or is that your next step?

I now live in fear. I’m terrified of my kitty’s escape when I’m not looking. I’m terrified my little escape artist Houdini dog will get out and get into that poison and I will lose my beloved dog.

And my kids, when we walk to the park.

What about them.

And you, the fact that you are there, sitting in your house, plotting how to get your poison out, unseen. Sitting there alone with your booze, in darkness, in misery, working on ways to share your pain with the world.

With all of us.

Even little boys and their kittens. Or my baby.

Do you feel better after it happens? When you see them dead, are you relieved? Do you lie in bed at night glowing with joy at the success of your missions? Are you satisfied?

Or do you know on some level this isn’t the person you were meant to be? Do you sense somehow there is some other way to live? Do you feel desperation in the face of your own evil, of the destruction you cause, of the tears you pull from the eyes of people around you?

Either way, I have an idea. The next time you’re feeling down, and the whiskey has taken your wits and your soul, try a little fly poison.

I hear it’s great for the complexion and digestion, and works wonders on primitive insects.

So it should be perfect for you.

I know, that wasn’t very nice.

But you’ve made yourself pretty hard to love. I guess I’ll try. Since you live right next door to me. They say it’s you. The man who LIVES NEXT DOOR TO ME, who I know pretty well, as my quirky drunk neighbor.

So when you emerge from your drunken abyss and chat with us on Sunday afternoons again, I will try to see through your evil to the baby your mother saw, the newborn she cradled in perfect adoration. In wonderment of his smallness and innocence.

And maybe I’ll explain that there are places for people like you to get help, people who will help you regain your sanity and spirit.

But first I’m going to watch you like a hawk and when I catch you I’m going to call the police and hope they haul your sorry ass away.

For a very, very long time.

Sincerely,
Janelle

1. Christmas shopping would be a lot more fun if there wasn’t so much shopping involved. Or, if I had like ten thousand dollars, you know, to waste. Or at all.
2. Every year I say we’re going to have a small Christmas, then every year I spend way too much money on way too many things we don’t need and it’s the picture of excess and unabashed materialism and I realize I’m a terrible person for buying so many things made of plastic and in China.
3. But I’ll be honest, it’s pretty much exactly how I want it.
4. And I’ll tell you why: my kids are still young enough that I can spend ten bucks on a gift and they think it’s freaking awesome, so I buy lots of ten dollar gifts, in anticipation of the time when they’ll be demanding $150 items and I’ll be able to afford like one gift for each of them. Or two. I LIKE showering them in crap. I LIKE IT.
5. I like the 2-hour gift-opening sessions. We do not have minimalist Christmases. I’m ashamed of myself. So ashamed I’m not going to do it again for at least a year.
6. In other news, I never want to eat again.
7. I am also currently watching my husband dance to the Wii game “Just Dance III.” There’s a lot of booty shaking occurring and I’m about to wet myself in hysterics. He’s doing this bunny hop thing and it’s freaking great.
8. I am so glad my husband is home. I’ll never complain about him again.
9. That may be untrue.
10. Anyway, I had an amazing Christmas. My brother and his wife and their 3 kids came and there were all of us at my mom’s house with noise and chaos and crying babies and love. My dad showed up on Christmas morning, my husband’s parents came as well. We were surrounded with the people that make this all bearable, and even, I’d say, enjoyable. And by “this” I mean life. The whole freaking shebang.
11. I get all sentimental this time of year.  I love my life, my people, and this (by the way, this was Christmas Eve, before Santa came):

Merry Christmas, everybody (who’s into this sort of thing). Um, a day late.

I realize the title of this post and my history of twisted sarcasm have probably led you to suspect that I’m about to tell a dark saga involving tyrannical children and poop, but I’m actually not. I’m actually going to tell you a happy Christmas story, as indicated. Or Hanukkah. Or Kwanzaa. Or every-other-day if you’re a Jehovah’s Witness.

Whatever.

It’s happy. And it’s Christmastime (for us). Therefore, it’s a happy Christmas story.

For your soul.

A couple weeks ago, Rocket, Georgia and I were in a restaurant. It was lunchtime and the place was pretty full. While waiting for our food, I was doing the usual follow-Georgia-around-the-restaurant-because-she’ll-only-sit-in-the-high-chair-for-12-and-a-half-minutes-and-I-need-to-save-it-for-when-the-food-actually-comes routine, which involves, of course, her stomping around the restaurant with great determination (though without destination), and me following, fielding glares from people when she falls on the floor and they look at me like “what kind of mother are you, letting your toddler touch that dirty ground.”

And with my eyes I say “bite me you judgmental childless bat.”

That’s not what I meant.

Yes it is. Because anybody who’s ever had a kid knows that most of them, at one point, learn to walk, and learning to walk involves FALLING, and falling kids aren’t interested in holding their mother’s hands. Do you know I’ve received at least 3 comments from strangers telling me I should hold my kid’s hand? Whatever.

Why am I always off topic?

So we’re walking around at an alarmingly rapid pace when all of a sudden Georgia stops dead in her tracks. Just stops completely and fixates on a very old, frail, kind-looking man sitting next to his wife. He was smiling at Georgia.

Georgia’s face was serious and focused, like she was trying to understand him. She then did something I have never seen her do to any stranger. Keeping her eyes on his, she put both hands up in the universal “pick me up” gesture. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it.

With some effort he pushed back his chair and turned around toward her. And with shaking hands this old man reached down and lifted up my daughter as she walked confidently into his arms. With determination that matched hers, he struggled to set her in his lap, facing him. She then, without hesitation, rested her head on his chest with all the calmness and serenity I’ve ever seen in her.

By now many people in the restaurant were watching, struck by a pretty interesting turn of events.

He patted her back and I felt like I was witnessing something that mattered, though I couldn’t figure out how. I didn’t say a word.

She lifted her head, looked up at him intently, then rested it on his chest again.

His face glowed, his eyes lit up with joy and pride and delight. They fell shut for a moment, as if he were trying to hold this moment completely in his mind.

She looked up into his face one more time, turned, and crawled off his lap, then kept stomping along her way.

It was one of those things in life that is so unexpected and inexplicable you roll it over and over in your head but can’t make sense of it. Why that guy? Why then? Why so much affection? What was her draw to this particular man?

When I told Mac the story he said something that rocked my soul.

He said “I wonder if he is about to die, and Georgia related to him, you know, like two people on either end. Maybe she knew he was like her, close to the source but on the other end.”

Now I’m not stupid enough to start talking about the “G” word on my blog. (God, not Georgia). I will only say that since having my first kid, it’s been apparent to me that young children are tuned into something that most adults have missed for a very, very long time – for whatever reason.

Maybe it’s just an incredible presence – an ability to stay right in the moment, all the time, in complete openness to whatever comes and where, evidently, miraculous gestures of love occur.

Where old men get hugs from toddlers they don’t know and whole restaurants get to see two complete strangers connect in love, on a level of existence that doesn’t make sense to most of us.

A moment of compassion and acceptance and truth. A moment of embrace. A very old, shaking man, and a bright, energetic toddler – a child who paused and took a moment to see him, see all of him, see his soul. And she saw that it needed something. A hug, perhaps, particularly.

And so, she gave it to him.

It was as if he was an old friend.

When he left, he patted Georgia’s head gently and she grinned and he looked at me with a knowing smile. There was a tear in his eye.

Perhaps they both understood.

What does she see?

1. Family trips would be a lot more fun if my kids weren’t there.
2. I realize this adjustment may threaten the occasion’s status as a “family trip,” but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
3. This past weekend we went to Sonoma County for two annual holiday parties – one with my extended family – the other with friends so old they are like extended family. And it would have been a lot more fun if my kids weren’t there, or maybe if they just stopped by occasionally. I mean they’re nice to look at, especially all dolled up in their Christmas gear, but they’re just so fucking annoying, particularly on trips. I believe this warrants a blog post of its own, but I’ll give you a rundown of the key problem areas: 1. Car rides; 2. Hotel rooms; 3. Behaving at other people’s houses.
4. But I guess the yelling and car sickness and tears and whining is all part of the deal – the youngest cousins going batshit crazy because some tyrannical aunt fed them soda and lollipops the size of their heads and Christmas outfits getting muddy (pissing me off) and flailing squealing boys and kids crashed out in the gift-filled car on the way home and new babies and old babies and all that family. Who knew me since I was a baby and a kid and a hot-headed teenager and now. All that crazy family we’ve held onto, once a year whether we need it or not. I just love those people so much. They are my people. And I wouldn’t change a single freaking thing.
5. But holy shit does it all make me miss my grandma. My dear grandma Bonny, who held it together and held me together, and fills my soul with longing and meaning and maternal pride. Because my roots are some badass roots, through her. And when I feel like it’s getting too heavy I think of my grandma Bonny and I tell her about it and she tells me through my heart that I’m tough as nails, just like her, and I’ll be just fine. But I miss her so much I feel paralyzed sometimes, like I can’t figure out how to navigate this place without her and I can’t believe she’s gone, even though it’s been 3 years.  I feel like she’s just gotta come back and say hello one of these days. But she hasn’t so far.
6. I’ll tell you about her someday, when I can see through my tears long enough to express my adoration for her.
7. Admittedly, however, she created a brood and extended brood a little like a mix of The Office and National Lampoon’s Christmas vacation, but for the sake of privacy, I’m leaving out details. You know who you are.
8. Btw, I have a rather infantile need to rebel – you know, do something contrary just on principle, for no reason whatsoever. For example, when I see those water conservation toilets that tell you to pull up for “Number 1” and push down for “Number 2,” I feel like pushing down even though I just went Number 1. I don’t actually do that, though, because that would be wrong. But I want to.
9. I feel better having admitted that.
10. I would also like to admit that I am a little proud of myself. Doesn’t happen often, but I felt a genuine sense of pride when I finished this semester of graduate school – there were many days when I wanted to quit, with the husband gone and all, but I stuck through it, and I freaking finished that shit. Yo.
11. And…today is our ten-year anniversary. I have so much to say about this, but there isn’t time right now. There is just too much to say. Ten years.

Is Christmas really on Sunday? I’m so screwed. Can’t we push it back a week? Damnit.