Merry Sleep Deprived Christmas

So, I am the third-in-a-series-of-I-don't-know-how-many ghosts of Christmas past that are visiting Mr. Lady's blog this week. I'm Molly, author of Soapy Water, progenitor of The Kid, who named Mr. Lady "Mr. Lady" (more out of expediency and attempted formality than gender confusion, I promise). I've had the distinct pleasure of knowing Mr. Lady since my sophomore year of high school, which is totally just a few years ago, it can't be anywhere near something like 17 years ago, can it?

So, being handed the keys to her blog, my mind has raced at the ability to humiliate her with pictures of high school or tell stories about our debaucherous past. Then, I realized I cannot locate any pictures from high school, let alone the one in particular I'm thinking of in her red homecoming dress looking just like the future MILF you all know and love, and most distant past stories contain proximity to debauchery more than actual participation therein (like the time we were the only two sober girls at some wild, outdoor rave in Boulder when Mr. Lady was dating this one dreadlocked dude named Slinky or something), and our more recent tales of wildness, well, a real lady just never kisses and tells, if you know what I mean... (elipses added for Eddie, Merry Christmas)

The thing that has made Mr. Lady's and my friendship cement so fully is our shared love of parenting, something I think somewhere in our little high school selves we knew we would do together, in some place in our subconciouses, but never to the degree that it's played out in reality. This is a blog, afterall, about surviving parenting, kinda.

So. Here's my current parenting quandary. I really, really, really, really want to tell The Kid The Truth About Santa Claus. He's driving me crazy.

Going to bed on Christmas eve is a chore I dread every year. It's an anxiety-ridden spaz-fest. The following questions were posed to me this morning within the hour The Kid awoke:

  • Is the flue open for Santa to come through the chimney?

  • What if he gets stuck?

  • Mom, are you going to bed right when I do, because if he skips our house because you are still up, to the moon with you!

  • What if I haven't been good enough this year?

  • Do you think Santa would be mad if we gave him eggnog instead of milk, or would that be a nice surprise?

  • Do you think Santa will like our cookies?

  • Will you give me some valerian root tonight so I can sleep?

  • Are you sure he won't come if I sleep next to the tree?

  • Have any kids lived who have seen Santa in their homes?

  • Are you SURE you opened the flue?

And so on...

Come bedtime, I will give The Kid a warm bath, a nice warm glass of milk, valerian root, 5Htp, melatonin and have a dose of benadryl waiting in the wings. If past years indicate, I will be giving him that dose of benadryl somewhere around 11:30 pm. He will still be as alert and awake as a skitterish 10 pound dog in a house full of cats, with fireworks going off outside. I will lay down with him, try to rub his back and calm him down. I will drift off to sleep with him, jolting awake somewhere around 2am, slip out of bed, do the santa thing, and get back to bed around 3am with enough adrenaline pumping through my body from not getting caught in-Santa-flagrante that I won't fall asleep until 4am.

I mean, at what point does this whole thing become all a little, um, stupid?

It does feel kinda worth it, the morning after. The Kid is an appreciative joy to be around when he's opening presents, with the "thankyouthankyouthankyou's" and the "I always wanted a _______" and the "Santa really knows what I like, isn't that amazing's?" But, dude, it's killing my excitement, this whole Christmas Eve Hurdle.

So, readers of Whiskey in my Sippy Cup: What to do? Have you told your kids? How did they find out? How did you find out? I need advice, yo.

Also, Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, etc. Blessings to you and yours, peace on earth, good will to men, and eat plenty of fiber.