Santa Fail

I forgot that Santa resides at the mall. The pilgrimage to his throne has not been a part of our children's Christmas upbringing, so when we entered the mall recently, I was briefly confused by the roped-off area surrounding the Christmas centerpiece. Then I saw the elves...then Santa...then I heard one of our children exclaim, "Daddy! Santa!"

"Yep, that's Santa....Okay, let's go shopping now."

It felt almost like we were passing a dead body: "Move along, children; nothing to see here. Move along, now."

The children didn't put up a fuss, and I velt vindicated (go ahead--say those two words in a Russian accent; you'll thank me immediately) upon hearing what my children would ask Santa for:
"Ummm...I don't know."

"Ummm...I'm not really sure."

"Ummm..."

But then, as the night progressed, I started feeling a little bit bad for not encouraging (and maybe even slightly discouraging) the childes from seeking Santa (wise men still seek him). So when the mall was finally through sucking our life juices from us, and just about ready to expel our carcasses, I slowed down a bit as we passed the Santa throne. 

"Anyone want to see Santa?"

"I DO!" No.4 pleaded.

But she was alone. No.2 and No.3 started discussing the probabilities of Santa's actual existence--whether in the mall or in the North Pole--and No.1 occupied herself with No.5.

"PLEEEEEEEASE, Daddy? I want to see Santa!"

"Daddy," said No.1," I'll take her, if you want."

"Great!"

So I walked them up to the throne (it was late, so nobody was in line). About ten yards from the man, No.4 froze. Not unexpected, but unexpected. I thought she had hurdled the hesitation during the mall tour, going over and over in her head what she planned to tell Santa (I'm a fool. Even Ralphie--he who had planned his speech for months--froze. And he was a professional actor!)

But she froze. Then she spidered up my leg and lunged off my hip and onto my head. 

Meanwhile, Santa's sitting there expectantly, pasting his "I can't wait to get home" smile onto his whisker-shrouded face.
She wasn't coming down--not while he was nearby.

So he turned to No.1.

He started small, then went for the big (but definitely not least expected) question:

"And what would you like for Christmas?"

"Ummm...(giggle) I don't really know....just...some books, I guess."

"Ohhhh. You like to read, do you?"

"(giggle) Yeah."

"You know, Santa likes to read, too--"

Stop. Now here is where I, a Santa pro, would have taken things: 

"Do you know what Santa most likes reading? The list of good girls and boys. Do you think your name is on that list?"

But lo, this Santa has apparently never associated with small children. Here is what he said:

"I just finished a book this summer. Oh, what was it called...they made a movie about it just recently...oh, I can't remember...Oh yes! Lord of the Rings. Have you read that?"
"..."

"You know, with Bilbo Baggins, and Gandalf..."

"..."

"And hobbits, and dragons?"

"..."

"I really liked that book."

"Oh."

I don't know if I've ever seen No.1 more dejected. Have you ever had a moment where you weren't sure if you wanted to do something, then talked yourself into doing it, hoping it would actually be an incredible experience, only to be let down? So you end up saying, I knew that would be lame. That was No.1 times infinity. Santa was a disappointing disappointment.
At the time.
It seems that since then, the children have been making excuses to hold onto the magic of Santa:
"Dad, that was just Santa's helper; he wasn't the real Santa," said No.2. "I saw black hair under his hat, that's how I know that."
And I am perfectly fine with them holding onto the idea of Santa. Because despite the imperfect experience of our children, the idea of a man who delights in giving gifts is a pretty nice thought.

Self-motivation

In the summer of 2008, I posited the following:

June 2033: The Wife and I move to Seattle, live off wild blackberries and Grizzly-discarded salmon.

But here it is, 2010, and we are already here, in the Puget Sound. Confronted by the daunting cost of living up here, I never thought it possible...but it happened. The market had deflated just enough up here--and inflated just enough in our last area--that when a job opening came, we were able to make it work. 
I didn't have a lot to do with it working out the way it did, so I get excited when I see my--I mean our--children work things out on their own. 
For example, our second to youngest child (No. 5) is Shetland short. She would be a Munchkin, if Munchkins had shorter legs. Doctors aren't sure where her ankles end and her knees begin. For her, the only difference between sitting and kneeling is the direction her toes are pointed.
Solution: the Bucket.
The Wife keeps a five-gallon bucket of oats in the pantry (it would be a ten-gallon, but I swore off oatmeal in middle school(1)). No.5 pushes the Bucket around to where she needs to reach, and gets what she needs. It's always food, it's always quiet, it's always messy, and it's never shameful. That last one is the problem.
When caught, she doesn't fall on the food in a cover-up; she doesn't fling it off the counter and pretend she was searching for constellations; she doesn't suddenly "fall asleep." Rather, she proudly pronounces her conquest: "Eating!"
How do you get mad at that? 
So not only does No.5 get what she wants, she gets what she wants, unscathed.
And amazingly, she has found a sensible use for oatmeal(2)!
Unfortunately, No.5 is also very good at taking care of her messy diapers...at least, the wearing of such diapers.
She likes her diapers clean and unsoiled, so she will, when confronted with the down 'n dirty, remove the offending agent. Her trail of evidence (sometimes niblets, sometimes dollops) coupled with her proud declaration of "Diaper Off!" makes for quick frantic clean-up. 
Does this exasperate me? Mmmmmmm-hm. 
But I do appreciate that she is taking matter(s) into her own hands. 
What is funny confusing about all this is No.5's reaction to her own production when seen out of character--for example, in the bathtub. The few times she has relaxed in the tub a little too much, her little kneekles cannot propel her across the water surface fast enough. The (apparently) frightening sight elicits from within her a sob typically reserved for children who have fallen into a bone-chilling body of water: a sort of hyperventilating stutter-cry. She wants out immediately, but...I mean...she's dirty. So I have to turn on the shower and (gag) retrieve the (gag) bowel buoys with a (gag) cup or bucket (oatmeal, anyone?). 
And No.5 cries. And sobs. And hyperventilates.
I guess sometimes we ourselves are surprised by our own efforts.




1. Long story short: I didn't finish my oatmeal at breakfast. Came home from school...and it was there to greet me. I ignored it (barely; my gag-reflex was on high alert); my parents did not. I ate lukecold oatmeal for dinner that night. If memory holds, the rest of the family had steak and lobster. I don't recall how I avoided oatmeal the rest of my upbringing...dry-heaving? Hunger strikes? Becoming a carnivore?
2. To be fair, there are other sensible uses for this grain: brick mortar; hair gel; paper mache`; wood glue; ipecac substitute; garbage.