Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them

We didn't celebrate Christmas when I was kid, so I never really understood the whole 'believing in Santa' thing.  All I knew was that we were under strict orders to not be the jerks who ruined it for everyone else.  We were never to tell.  I don't know about my brother, but I never told a soul.  One day, just no one believed anymore, and that was that.

I have to admit that I LOVE my kids believing in Santa, and I'm overly sad that it's going to end soon.  I always swore I'd never lie to my kids like that, that I'd never teach them about something as stupid as magical, chubby dudes and flying reindeer, that I was a bigger person than all that.  The reality of it is that I can't get enough of it.  There's something about it that I just find gorgeous and beautiful and meaningful.  Maybe it's just that I never had it, I don't know.

What I do know is that something happened this year that just bought me a hell of a lot of time, and the story is right this way....

Of Mice and Men

So yeah, I suppose I'm back and stuff, but here I sit thinking "Oh crap, who can I get to keep writing this thing for me?"  I'm just not feeling it yet.  Alas, I am determined to get all the boob shots of my main page (thank you for that, Mr Lin; you'll get yours, mister) and so there has to be something going up.

I got to thinking about all the things I was determined to do on my time off, all the ways I was dedicated to being the new, improved Mr Lady this coming year, and how already, 12 hours into it, I've managed to fuck it all up.

I'd decided to get back on my little diet that I so thoroughly trampled upon over the past two weeks, and so naturally I started the morning of January 1st bent over the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in one hand and a bowl of Cheese Whiz in front of me and a fistful of Saltines in the other hand.  Apparently, it only takes me .056 seconds to catch sympathy pregnancy.

I thought it would be a good idea to get my kids eating more diverse, nutritionally balanced foods including more than Frosted Flakes and apples with peanut butter, and after two weeks of cooking seriously divine food 24/7, they started their New Year by requesting Ramen noodles and english muffins with jam for breakfast.  And I obliged.  Because I suck.

I was determined to not be 80 years old, and to stay up in New Years Eve until my husband got home from his 14 hour day at work to bring in the New Year with a bang in the interest of being a better, more trampy aggressive wife this year.  And I actually made it until the 1:45 in the morning he came rolling in, and I indeed got my New Years bang.  Of my head.  On my pillow.  What?  Snoring, drooling chicks are dead sexy.

I wanted to take my time off honing some of my other skills, to rediscover Shannon's interest and not just Mr Lady's, and after two long, glorious, deadline free weeks of doing whatever the hell I wanted to, I still can't figure out how to get the stupid ball to turn around in BiiBallLite.  And it's making me fucking insane.

I bought a book to read, because when I'm not staring at a laptop all day, I suddenly have the urge to read literature.  I bought the new book by one of my favorite authors, sat down on the couch, curled up with a blanket, and dreamed of days squandered on the couch basking in words on pages.  And then I devoured that sucker in less than 24 hours.  I hear they make a cream for that.

And, of course, I totally cleaned my house while I was gone.  That was kind of the whole point of the hiatus.  By yesterday morning, you could eat off of all the floors.  You could see your reflection in the walls.  And of nothing else, I was determined to keep this up.  There was never laundry in the baskets in the morning, the dishes were clean and the sink was empty every morning, and I can't tell you how happy I've been about the whole thing.  And then one day, ONE DAY we have plans to go somewhere, and of course I run 30 mintues late, and right now there are grapes smashed into the kitchen floor, I'm a day behind on laundry (which, shut up, there's 5 of us and one of us is at the tail end of 'wiping her own ass' training' and there are 13 things on top of my coffee table that have no business not being in the trash, on someone's foot, in a coat pocket, tool box, or kitchen sink.  Which is full.  And starting to smell funny.

And here I sit, writing on my blog.

Thank god I didn't bother trying to quit smoking.

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.

I'll Stop Procrastinating Tomorrow

All of my shipping for the holidays is done, save one package, simply because I can't find a box big enough.  As for my family, well, let's say this: I have this weird closet in my bedroom that I use solely for hiding shit from my kids.  Usually, it's full to overflowing a week before Christmas.  Right now, there's one bag and a box in there.  I'm totally behind.  And I couldn't care less.

We're going to have an awesome Christmas.  The food will rock, the company will be fine, and the kids will get their hearts' desire.  This year, they're getting fewer and more meaningful gifts.  I cannot wait.  As for The Donor and me, we're spicing it up.  Experimenting.  As anyone married this long has to do.  We're shopping for ourselves.

We came to this agreement because I buy him crap he hates and he buys me the left side of the mall in hopes that one thing will be right.  He doesn't want crap, and I would like to pay the heating bill this month, so we're going to try this.  We both hate the idea of it, though, so we've made some compromises.

He and I will buy the Santa gift for each other.  We will keep that gift a secret.  Then, on Sunday night, we will dress up in our fancy clothes, go have a ridiculously over-thought meal at the most pompous restaurant you could ever imagine (we have a gift certificate, shut up) and then we're going shopping.  Together.  Downtown.  At night, with hot chocolates and hand holding and Christmas lights on trees.  He's going to help me pick out some shirts and I'll show him which watches I think bring out his grey eyes.

We'll each get what we want, no one will overspend, and we'll get a very very hot date out of the whole thing.  That's the best Christmas gift ever if you ask me.

Of course, we're doing that four days before Christmas, and I'll have to start finish the kids up on Sunday morning before we go out.  We're totally screwed.  And I couldn't care less, because it will be awesome no matter what.  If I have to shop for them at Safeway, so be it.  The kids like Fruit Roll Ups, and they're easy to wrap.

Who am I kidding?  I totally shop for them at Safeway.  I'm there every damn day anyway.  That one bag in my closet?  Safeway bag.  You can fill a stocking without so much as thinking while you wait for them to ring up your milk.  Provided, of course, your kids are into batteries, pens, chapstick, bubble gum and iTunes.  Which mine are.  Speaking of which, anyone need one of those iTunes gift cards they sell at the checkout at Safeway?  (Or Save-on Foods, Sobeys, Mac's and A&P, to be perfectly fair.) Because I have an extra $25 one.  You can totally have it, but you have to live in Canada.  Because screw you guys with your US only giveaways.  CANADIANS ARE PEOPLE, TOO.  There's no way I can get it to you in time for Christmas, but maybe by New Years?  Leave your name in the comments and I'll pick one on Saturday, right before I go offline for the rest of the year.