Have Your Ever Ruined Your Child's Christmas?

This is a Christmas story.  It is not, however, intended for anyone under the age of ten.  IF you have met this height requirement, please proceed.

            This is also a true story that I’ve shared with many of my readers, and even wrote a short play about it, which was performed in New York last year.  This is honestly what happened:

            Nicole was seven years old, and came home from school furious.  She had just finished reading a Goosebumps book by R. L. Stein, in which he made it clear that Santa does not exist.  Now she was standing in front of me, hands on her hips, demanding to know the truth.  And I could just strangle R. L. Stein. 

I took a deep breath, and that one pause was enough to confirm her worst fears.  I rushed in to console her, to remind her that Christmas is about love, and that giving is better than receiving, and I knew all she was hearing was “blah blah blah” because her innocence was shattered, and no jolly elf was reading her letters or eating the cookies she so carefully arranged each year.  And he certainly wasn’t coming down the chimney to bring her presents. 

Of course, it was Christmastime, and Nicole was devastated.  She wanted no mention of Santa, no Santa decorations, no songs about Santa— as far as she was concerned, life was over and Christmas was a sham.  I held her in my arms, and reminded her that Christmas is really about the birth of Christ… hellooo?... and that’s joyous enough, right there.  Then I talked with her about the fun it is to be Santa, to fill the stockings, to carry on the tradition, but she was unmoved. 

She gasped.  “So this means the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy are fake, too, right?”  

 

“Well, I certainly believe in them,” I said. 

But she saw right through me.  A triple whammy!  “My life is ruined,” she repeated, and stormed off to her room. 

All afternoon and evening I tried to comfort her, and remind her of the happy events of the season and the blessings she enjoyed. Nothing worked.

Finally it was bedtime and I lay down beside her, wishing there was some magical way I could restore the enchanting fantasy.  I glanced around her dimly-lit room and, suddenly, there it was: The answer!  In the shadows on a bookshelf was a magic kit.

            I turned to my little girl.  “Honey,” I whispered, “It’s like watching a magician.  Even though you know there’s a trick to everything he does, it’s still fun to watch him.”

Now she whipped around to face me.  “You mean there’s no magic, either??!”

I wanted to roll off the bed and fall into a bottomless pit where all bad mothers go.   Yes, Dear Readers, this is the story of how I am the worst mother in the universe.  A meteor could have fallen through the roof and right through my heart, and it couldn’t have been worse.  Just shoot me now was zinging through my brain, and I fully expect to see a videotape of this hideous moment, after I die and the scales are being weighed in the hereafter.

And so I give you a Christmas gift this season, of knowing you are at least a better parent than that Joni Hilton blogger person.  And you’re probably better than R. L. Stein, too.

Tell your friends to subscribe (also to my youtube channel here), and feelings of superiority can be yours forever.

People Are Like Christmas Lights

        

Bob and I just taped a new video for my YouTube channel, in which I offer an easy trick for stringing lights on a tree (and for taking them down again).  You can watch it here.  And no sooner do I finish dispensing this marvelous trick, than Bob says, “I totally disagree with your method, by the way.”

            Really.  And why does this not surprise me?  This is hardly the first time he has disagreed with my ideas, but, St. Bob that he is, he videotapes them anyway.

            “Have a rebuttal channel,” I tell him.  “But good luck finding a camera woman.”  And so we stand out in the cold, debating how to string Christmas lights for a few minutes.  Actually, I cave in on this one because we are decorating a prickly Blue Spruce, and frankly, I don’t care how Bob does it as long as he does it.  It’s like getting help with the dishes—who cares if they do it your way?

            However, one thing we both agree on, is my other theory about Christmas lights.  There are two kinds of people in this world:  Those who put folks into two categories, and those who don’t.  But go with me for a minute on this one.

            The two groups I’m thinking of are the people who roll with life’s punches and ultimately survive the storms, and those who flip out and become hysterical knots of panic, requiring sedation and possibly medication.

            It’s very much like Christmas lights.  If you have just decorated your home or Christmas tree, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  On some strands, when one bulb goes out, the whole strand has a nervous breakdown and fritzes into oblivion.  These are called “series” lights.  They are like your Aunt Thelma who gets a run in her stockings and has to take a Valium.  These are the multi-phobic neurotics in every family and workplace, who operate on the edge of hysteria and turn every mishap into a colossal catastrophe.  Drama doesn’t even begin to describe it.

 

           The other kind of light strand is called “parallel.”  These stay lit even if one bulb goes out, and this is the kind of lighting everybody wants.  

 These are the people who quietly change lanes if a semi pulls into their lane a couple of blocks ahead.  They continue their conversation and maintain a steady mood, eventually passing the truck with nary a glance.  Series people gasp and swerve, break into a sweat, and shout, “Did you see that guy?  He just pulled right into my lane!  Did you see that?”  

            It is needless to say that parallel people have lower blood pressure, happier lives, and more organized desks.  Series people have worrisome levels of caffeine in their blood, lives of chaos, and desks covered with papers from as far back as 1997. Series people burst into tears over burned dinners, cancelled plans, and broken appliances.  Parallel people take daily setbacks in stride and simply set about finding the solution.

             Parallel people hobble around with sprained ankles while series people lie in bed and worry that their ankle will become arthritic.   Parallel people go looking for a job if they get fired.  Series people go looking for a bar.

            This Christmas, as check-out lines lengthen and tempers shorten, try to be one of the parallel lights that shines brightly, even if others around you burn out.  Don’t let your whole season be ruined by one rude driver or one grabby shopper.  Go with the flow and keep your strand beaming despite the ups and downs inherent in every holiday season.

            After all, as I said, these are the light strands everybody wants to have.  But then, do string them my way, won’t you?

                  (Portions of this blog post have appeared in MeridianMagazine.)  

 Don’t forget to order hard copies of my 3 new novels from Createspace, here.  And now your Christmas shopping is done!

Not Grand, Not Yet

            There is no good reason why I don’t have grandkids, yet.  I’m old enough.  Barely.  Okay, not barely.  And I have four children, three of whom are ages 25 to 32.  (Yes, I had them all when I was in my teens-- ha!)

            Only the 25-year-old is married, but the others were supposed to be married and cranking out MY GRANDCHILDREN by now!  Nicole is off the hook, since she’s serving a church mission in Norway, and probably ought not to be thinking about having babies just yet.

            I’ve told them all that if they don’t hurry up, I will be useless as a babysitter.  I’m already borderline useless because I have ADD (You left your baby here?  What baby?), and if they don’t hurry, their kids will have to babysit me (Aww, I have to babysit Grandma again?  I did it last time!  It’s Stanley’s turn!)  Assuming one of them is named Stanley.

            I have a friend, Cynthia Horst, who is my same age and has nine—count ‘em, NINE—grandkids.  She’s the quilting wonder behind the blog, Dream, Quilt, Create which you can find here.  She has made every single one of them a totally killer blessing gown and bonnet, smocked, embroidered, with matching slip, the whole nine yards:

            It’s disgusting.  Okay, her sewing is not disgusting; any dope can see that it’s ethereal and unbelievable.  What’s disgusting is that I have NOT ONE grandchild to sew for.  Not that I would sew, necessarily.  And if I did, it would probably be finger puppets, not heirloom-quality blessing gowns.

            Maybe that’s the problem.  Maybe if I could make amazing paper doll quilts

And doll clothes and doll bassinets

 

my kids would realize the bonanza they have, of such a talented grandma in the wings, and they’d get busy. 

            But I can certainly make cookies and fairy gardens and, and, okay maybe that’s it.  But I know women who can’t even make those, and they are surrounded by grandchildren.  Do you know how many tiny children were at my Thanksgiving table this year?   Here is what I cooked, a photo taken by the as-yet-unmarried 32-year-old:

And the number of grandchildren in attendance: Zero.  Zero, I tell you.  And now Christmas is coming and do you know how many children will lie awake in my house, listening for the jingle bells of Santa’s sleigh?  And gasping in amazement at his snowy footsteps on the carpet, on Christmas morning?  Yep, you’re doing the math: Zero, again. 

Not that I’m whining, mind you.  It’s certainly not my business.

Give a wanna-be Grandma a break, and buy her books.  Jungle, Sisters in the Mix, and Pinholes into Heaven are even available in hard copies at Createspace.com.  Check ‘em out!  And if you are shopping for LDS parents, you’ll definitely want Wishes for the LDS Child available here.