My Santa Truth Vigil

Some people think I'm a party pooper when they hear I tell my sons the truth about Santa Claus. I've told them each since their first Christmas, and I remind them every year. They will grow up never having believed.

The whole make-believe thing is fun, and I get that. In my opinion the point, though, to make-believe and using imagination is that children understand the scenario is not real. Otherwise, it isn't make believe it's deception.

We like Santa here. I'm not anti-Santa. I tell my kids that Santa is a wonderfully fun character. Like Nemo or Curious George. The myth of Santa is a great story! It's really fun to ponder how he could get his reindeer to walk on the roof without slipping, or how he fits down a narrow chimney, or flies around the world so fast. It's fun to imagine him in his workshop surrounded by elves making the perfect gift for us.

It's fun and we do those things and play those games. We put Santa stickers in our coloring book, but I always keep them in check by adding "Santa's not a real person" or "this is such a fun story".

The funny thing is, Weston doesn't believe me. I tell him Santa is not real, and he laughs and says, "of course he is". There have been times when he's gotten quiet (with that inquisitive look in his eye)...... like he's thinking real hard. Weighing the evidence and all the information, but the fact remains that Wes thinks I'm just plain wrong (that I'm well meaning but ill informed). It's okay, one day he'll understand.

The rational behind my Santa truth vigil is strong (and I believe valid). I'm not one for lying to my kids. I value the truth and I hope they will too. How can you teach a child to tell you the truth? To value the truth? I think the only way is to be the example, yourself.

That's my goal. I want them to know they can come to me, with any question and I will always give them and honest answer. They can count on me for the truth. For this to work when they are teenagers, I believe it has to start now.

Also, I believe it's important for my kids to know the real reason we celebrate Christmas. So every year we have a birthday cake for Jesus..... we sing and we blow out candles...... then open presents. We read stories about the birth of Jesus and the first Christmas, and I am always sure to tell them. That Jesus is real, that he is not a character, it's not just a story. It actually happened! This makes the story of Mary and Joseph and Jesus in the manger so much more fascinating, because this story is special..... it's REAL.

I held it together!

Well, it's finally feeling Christmasy around here. We got our tree up this weekend and started doing some holiday festivities. Our Friday night retail therapy resulted the purchase of some Christmas crafts including a gingerbread house kit.

Let me tell you, in case you are unaware like I was, this is NOT simple. By the end I was COVERED in frosting. I would have taken a photo but I didn't wash my hair yesterday and I have a few zits......... so, just paint a picture in your mind, okay?

It was comical. There I was balancing the gingerbread house parts with soup cans in our tiny kitchen, trying to squirt the frosting though the plastic bag while Liam ate the decorations and Weston (not so patiently) waited to design his masterpiece. I had a few moments of sheer frustration and I almost lost my cool, BUT, I'm proud to say I held it all together (the little candy house along with my sanity) and we did it! (I did have to call for reinforcements from Nate.) But, look!!

The Halls are decked! The tree is up and the little gingerbread house sits on the table. Christmas... HERE WE COME!!

The not so Christmas Party

What was I thinking when I decided that going my work Christmas Party by myself was a good idea? (I've only worked for the company for about 2 months) What planet do I live on? I know I'm socially challenged. I mean I'm seriously a dork. I'm so self-conscious and totally uncool that I use words like "uncool" and I'm 31 years old and I worry about being cool.

I hate my face..... and my voice. My voice is WAY to low, and who can carry on a conversation with a face that looks like this? In high school, I didn't talk much, but spent hours making sure I had the correct jeans and shoes. Do you know what that got me? ...... slashed tires in the parking lot, and the words "Rich Bitch" scribbled across my locker. Yeah, I was well liked.

Not surprisingly, the Christmas Party this year didn't go well. First of all, I was late and it was in the city (and I hate driving in the city especially at night). I couldn't find a place to park. I ended up parking in the hospital ramp and shuffling a few blocks through the freezing cold with no gloves. Finally as I approached the building and reached to put my cell phone back into my purse (I had been talking to Nate so that my fear of being mugged was subsided as I walked four blocks in the dark) I dumped the contents of my purse on the front steps of the restaurant. I gathered my belongings and carried them into the party in a pile.

When I got the party room in the back, I realized there was nowhere to sit. I mean NOWHERE. The room was completely full of people chatting and eating (you know, socializing). I walked toward the back desperately surveying the room for a spot. A few people half-heatedly said hello. As, one nurse got up with and squeezed past me with a chicken wing in her mouth, I said, "there doesn't seem to be anywhere to sit" (i.e HELP ME!!!!) She said, "Oh, they reserved some tables out there" and pointed outside of the party room to a couple of lonely booths.

I walked over and plopped my stuff on the table. I was starving. So, I sat down and figured I'd order a burger, scarf it down, and get the H out of there. But, as I fumbled with my wallet waiting for the waiter and awkwardly pretending to read my grocery list (yeah, I did this to look LESS pathetic) I realized that my best strategy would be to BOLT NOW!!!

So I gathered my stuff up into my arms again and fled to the door as fast as possible. As I scurried back to the parking ramp shoving my stuff into my purse, I somehow lost my keys. I stood next to my car frantically rummaging through my purse as my fingers literally went numb from the cold. So numb I couldn't feel the damn keys when I found them. I purposely dumped my purse back out onto the ground so I could find the keys faster and as I picked them up off the asphalt (along with a couple of tampons and a lipstick that was missing the cap), I said out loud, "Why does God hate me so much?"

On the way home I ran through a gamut of emotions. I was angry, frustrated, and embarrassed. I called and told Nate I'd be home shortly, he really didn't sound surprised. Then, I called and vented to my mom, but when she had to take a call on the other line I was left alone to my thoughts, and I started to cry.

As I drove down highway 94 with my mascara streaming down my cheeks I asked myself if it was too much to drive though Taco Bell looking like a lunatic. I thought a Cheesy Bean Burrito might really help. (I then decided against it.)

I remembered feeling the same way on the bus on the way home from school in kindergarten when an older boy, Jason said to me, "Do you have a staring problem?"

Yes! Yes, I do have a staring problem and a lot of other problems too, SO LEAVE ME ALONE! I'm best just left alone. I come across much better through the written word. I really should just lock myself in a room somewhere and only communicate with the outside world through texts.

By the time I got home my family had already finished dinner so I inhaled a turkey sandwich and then my husband suggested that some retail therapy might help. We went to the craft store and bought a bunch of kid creation projects. It did help somewhat, but I was still a little grouchy at the store.

On the way home Nate stopped the van at Caribou and came out carrying a Ho Ho Peppermint Mocha with extra whip cream.... and then he drove around for awhile so I could gaze at Christmas lights as I sipped. There is not a better human being on this earth.