The Complications of Santa

  I say with a sigh of relief and only a hint of sadness that Christmas is over. I say it with relief  not because I do not enjoy the holidays.  Not because I have eaten more than my body weight in sweets and meat.  And not because I am exhausted to the very marrow in my bones.  I am glad because Santa Claus has become a thorn in my paw, a complicated man who complicated my life this year from November 1st to December 25th.
  I will share with you a conversation I had with my almost eight year old as we drove to the store to get gifts for his siblings.
   Child:  "So Mom, why can't we see Santa?  Why does he have to be secret?"
   Me:"Because if we see him he loses his magic."
   Child: "Well good thing he hires all those guys to pretend to be him then."
   Me:"Good point."
   Child:"Why do the elves get to see him then if no one else can see him?"
   ME:"Because they are his helpers. He needs helpers you know. It is a big job for one person."
   Child:" You said he was magic, if he is magic he shouldn't need helpers.  Did you know there is witch who delivers presents?"
   Me: "A witch?  I don't think so.  I think you are confusing your holidays."
  Child:" No there is. Mrs. F said so in school.  Kids put out 13 shoes and get a present in each shoe."
  Me: "That sounds like more than one story."
  Child: "Well it's true . How come everyone doesn't have Santa? And why does he look different in pictures? And why do you keep telling me something is too expensive for Santa if he is magic he just makes whatever we want,right?"
   I would like to say this was the end of the conversation but it kept going until I steered him into the store and distracted him .  This is nothing new for our middle child.  He is the most curious and the first one to question just about anything.  I did however have to look up the "witch" thing and as it turns out one of his teachers must have been explaining the Italian "witch" who brings toys to children on the Feast of Epiphany on January 6th.  The legend of La Befana says that the wise men stopped at her hut to ask directions to Bethlehem and invited her to join them.  She refused and then refused a shepard later and when she saw the great light in the sky she thought she should have gone with them. She gathered toys from her home that belonged to her deceased child and tried to find the manger.  She didn't and it is said each year she travels to find the Christ Child and leaves toys for good children and coal for bad children.  So as usual my middle child was giving me the true story.  One of these days maybe I will learn.
   I do not remember being so curious or asking as many questions.  Perhaps I did.  It just didn't seem so complicated.  We took it on faith that Santa was everywhere. It never occurred to me that Santa couldn't be at the mall and at G.Fox at the same time.  He was just where I was.  I never gave any thought to how he delivered everything in one night, when in truth it has to be a logistical nightmare.  I am not sure how he does it when I cannot even get three kids to three different places in one afternoon without calling for help from the National Guard.
  Kids are more sophisticated today I suppose.  They have too many things in an instant.  They can look up anything they want any time they want and get an instant answer.  Too much that is explained and explained some more so that just believing in something becomes nearly impossible.
  When we were kids, in my memory it was just more simple. My sister and I were taken to Hartford to see the lights on Constitution Plaza, eat dinner, when we were very young I suppose we saw Santa also.  I think then he was in G.Fox&Co.  That was a tradition for many years.  We would get a book then too.  I still have two of the books I got..."Strega Nona" and "The Phantom Toll Booth." We would also take a tour through the toy department that was up on top floor.  I remember this because the ceiling was so low I thought my dad might hit his head.  The year I was in fourth grade, we made this trip and when I came to the toy department I stopped in front of the dolls.  There was a section of Madame Alexander dolls. I  had no idea that they were the American girl doll of today back then, I just fell in love with one doll.  She had blonde hair that curled at the bottom and blue eyes that shut when you laid her down.  She was in a package and I just stood and stared at her.  I pointed her out to my dad who said,"Umm."  I think he took a glance at the price tag and then ushered me elsewhere.  I managed to point her out to my mom and that became my soul focus for Christmas. It was that simple.  One doll.  How hard could that be?
  This year my 4 year old caught sight of the "Doc McStuffins Check up Center" as it was advertised on television.  I glanced at it, did what my dad did and said,"Umm."  It wasn't until a couple weeks later and only two weeks before Christmas that she mentioned it again with the same enthusiasm I had for that doll.  So I logged on and searched.  It was listed at Toys R Us.  I added it to my cart and a box popped up that said "item no longer available".  So I searched WalMart.  I found one at a local Walmart, added it to my cart and smiled to myself.  Less then 24 hours later I got an email saying the item was no longer available.  I panicked.  I started searching.  Google searching, eBay, Craigs list.  Nothing. I even searched stores in the towns near my father and in-laws; many, many zip codes away. Apparently it was one of the hot toys this year, like the Cabbage Patch doll in the 80's.  Each day I tried to find it.  And each day drew another round of Christmas panic.  I tried explaining to my 4 year old one afternoon that she might want to ask Santa for something else just in case.  And this is where the 8 year old came into the conversation telling me that Santa can do anything, he makes everything so why wouldn't everyone get what they want.  I did what any smart mother would do I delegated to my husband.
 "Your turn."  I said "You find the elusive Doc McStuffins Check up Center."  Well he did five days before Christmas on Craig's list.  It was more then I wanted to pay and to be honest the thought of my husband driving off to some stranger's house to get a toy, a few days before Christmas made my stomach flip into my throat.  So while he was driving I took one last look.  I found one at WalMart and called my husband.  We would have it by Christmas Eve.  My husband turned around and came home.  Disaster averted.
   Later that night, the same night my 8 year old was grilling me about Santa and all his mysteries, we were wandering through K Mart when he stopped in front of a toy and shouted," Mom!  This is what little miss wants from Santa! Do you think she'll get it?  Maybe we should get it just in case Santa doesn't."  Without looking at the toy I said,"Oh I am sure Santa got her what she wanted."  He moved in front of me with a box.  It was a small box and not what the 4 year old told me she wanted.
  I looked blankly at the toy in the box while my 8 year old smiled at me.  Are you kidding?  A small toy for less than 20 bucks in a store less than 15 miles from my house.  It was that easy?  I had spent countless hours searching, worrying,negotiating other toys into the bargain when it was really much more simple.  I had lost sight of everything I was trying to help my own children believe.  I had become so focused on finding one "perfect"gift I hadn't even been paying attention.  I had turned something simple into something complicated and loathsome.  I had lost trust in the magic of the season.  Luckily along with his gift for asking too many questions, my 8 year old has the ability to take in and remember anything said or done within a three mile radius of him.
  When we got home I asked little miss what she wanted from Santa and she confirmed she wanted the Octonauts Octopod.  My 8 year old smiled at me.  I bit the inside of my cheek and said with as much sweetness as I could muster, "And how about the check up center?  You know Doc McStuffins?"  My sweet child smiled back and said simply," Oh I want that for my birthday."
  Just as my daughter doesn't know what occurred before Christmas morning, I don't know how the Madame Alexander doll was purchased for me that wonderful Christmas.  I don't know if my father said no because it was too expensive and my mother wore him down or if he thought it was the perfect gift for me.  I don't know if he travelled back to G.Fox or if they found it somewhere closer. Or if they had to search because it was a tough gift to find.  It didn't matter for all I knew Santa had brought it and my parents had nothing to do with it.
  On Christmas morning as each gift was ripped from it's wrapping, squeals and shouts filled our living room.  My 4 year nearly passed out when she opened the small box with cheaper toy.  My 8 year old was right, it was exactly what she wanted.  Perhaps it had been Santa who sent us into that store two nights before Christmas.  He is magic after all.

  My daughter is four.  She is sweet and funny, what some might have called her years ago is precocious but I hardly ever hear that word any more.  She is shy around people she doesn't know but once she feels confident that facade slides away like a small pebble in a strong tide and you can hardly keep up with her conversation.

   When I was pregnant with her I was convinced she was a boy.  Everything about my pregnancy seemed the same as it had for her brothers.  My husband picked out a name for a boy and we hardly discussed any options for a girl, we were that sure it wouldn't be a girl.  I wasn't even confident I would know what to do with a girl.  Our house was full of trains and superheroes, boxer shorts and star wars t-shirts. Where would a girl fit in?

   When she was born and my doctor announced the arrival of a baby girl I burst into tears.  My poor husband thought I was disappointed but I guess even I didn't realize how deeply I had been hoping for a girl.  My husband dialed our phone and called my dad who had been staying with our boys.  When I heard his voice I started crying again and told him we had a girl. He responded, "I am so glad.  I was hoping you would have a girl."  Perhaps we were all hoping but we were all afraid to say it. 

   It didn't take me long to realize having a girl isn't very different from having a boy.  She had the same needs as an infant but was even more quiet and agreeable then either of her brothers.  She smiled quickly and easily and she never had colic.  When she was four months old our pediatrician had some concerns about her left hip and sent us off to the children's hospital just to get "checked out".  As it turned out she had hip dysplasia and they placed her in a Pavlik Harness that same day.  As we walked out of the hospital she cried and fussed which made me cry and fuss.  It was a rainy day in July and cold for a summer day.  The grey sky matched my mood. 

   As we reached the elevator another mom came up behind us.  Her daughter, perhaps eight years old was very disabled and in a wheelchair.  I looked at the mom and stopped crying.  This was a little bump and we would get through it.  And we did.  Our four month girl just took it in stride.  It didn't interrupt her sleeping, she slept on her back, legs hanging in mid-air thanks to the harness. 

   Four months later we had our final check up and the nurse practitioner pulled off the harness.  I put little shoes on her feet and smiled all the way home.  So did she.  She grabbed her toes in the car as though we had just added them to her body.  Her face full of wonder and excitement.

    As she has gotten older she has maintained that beautiful easy going attitude, now with a side of sassy-ness which I have come to admire.  I love the way she will hug me while I am washing the dishes.  Or whisper from the back seat of the car that she loves me.  But most of all I love her ability to wear a pink striped shirt with orange plaid pants and strut out our door with so much confidence it is dripping like syrup, thick and sweet.  If you are wondering if I let her go out in such an outfit the answer is yes.  I pick my battles.  I also don't want to put in her mind that she has to fit into a particular mold.  That she is like all the other little girls her age and she should wear pink with pink and orange with orange.  I am past trying to squeeze her into clothes the way I did with her oldest brother.  That poor child wasn't allowed out unless he resembled a GAP ad.

    My own mother would not have let me traipse about wearing mismatched clothes.  It would have looked too much like I was one of the orphans her own parents cared for when she was growing up. I matched.  And for years my sister and I matched.  We wore matching polyester short set in summer and matching flannel nightgowns, especially on Christmas morning, I still have the photos to prove it. Our hair was neat and combed.  We were pressed and ironed.  We wore stockings and skirts and patent leather shoes.  My mother might be amused by my daughter's flare for personal fashion , then again she might have wanted to buy out the local Gymboree. There are times when I am tempted to put a sign on my daughter's back that reads, "I chose my own outfit today, my mother had nothing to do with this."  It isn't worth the effort.  Mothers of little girls look at me with that secret knowing smile and I know they at least understand.

    Last weekend my precious little girl took craft scissors in hand and cut her own hair.  Her , may I say, beautiful wavy blond hair that had finally grown out from her last attempt to cut her own hair.   She appeared in the kitchen, small mirror in hand and large sad eyes on her face.  When I saw her I am sure my own face mirrored her feelings and she burst into tears.  She had given herself a mullet only Mel Gibson could have been proud of.  Once the shock wore off though she was fine.  I was having trouble breathing especially after finding the pile of hair on the floor.  I didn't have time to take her to my own salon and get it fixed until later in the week.  On Sunday she went to a birthday party when not a single friend seemed to notice her handy work, even though it was staring them in the face.  On Monday she walked proudly up to her preschool teacher and announced that she and mommy had cut her hair.  I did quickly explain the truth and searched for materials to make sign.

    By the time we reached the salon three days later she was perfectly comfortable with her hair and was perfectly angry with me for getting it cut more.  My stylist didn't have much to work with and she did the best she could but it wasn't what my daughter wanted.  If you asked her today a week later if she likes her hair cut she will tell you unequivocally "No!".  But then she will tell you "It will grow."  She's sassy and smart.  And I admire her for it.  I admire that she can walk around looking like a small child out of "Mad Max"  and wear clothes that don't match and carry that without an ounce of self-consciousness leaking into her being.

   A few weeks after she was born while I was sitting on the couch cradling her and sniffing up her new baby smell.  We had not planned on having a third child.  We had not planned on having a girl.  Before we found out I was pregnant again we had given away almost all of our baby stuff.  I guess sometimes you don't realize what you need in your life until it is there staring you in the face. My husband came and sat next to us and smiled down at his daughter, who has managed to wrap him up like a present in her own way over the years, and said, "She is your mother's last gift to you."

   He is right. Only my mother would dress her differently.