Okay, I did something today that I shouldn't have. I probably shouldn't even confess it here, but I have to. Because it may come into play in the coming days.
On the way to school today, my oldest son began to talk about a boy at school who was telling everyone that there was no Santa, no Rudolph (imagine!) and that the parents brought their presents. My son was very upset at this thought, and I could tell he didn't want to believe it. So first he asked, "How can I believe in something I can't see? I've never seen Santa."
"What about God?" I asked. "Have you seen him?"
"No," he admitted. "But I definitely believe in Him. He helps me all the time."
"So do you have to see something to believe in it?"
"I guess not. But I do believe in Santa and especially Rudolph."
Keep in mind four other little sets of ears are listening intently to this conversation I'm having with the oldest kid in the car. I'm getting worried.
"So why does this kid say his parents get the presents?" He asked.
This is a moment that separates the men from the boys, the amateur moms from the old pros. How would I handle this? If I came clean, every kid in the car would be devastated. But if I gave a lame answer, they'd be unsettled and I might have trouble getting them out of the car for school. So I did the best I could in the moment.
"Here's the thing," I said, leaning over the seat conspiratorially, "some kids parents DO buy their presents."
I heard them suck in their breath. "Why?" one boy asked. They leaned forward to hear more.
"Some parents HAVE to buy their kids presents because they've been bad, and they know Santa won't come. And they're scared the kids will freak out if they don't have presents."
The kids all nodded, eyes big. They bought it.
"Okay, have a good day," I called as the kids climbed out of the car. I felt smug and proud. I'd given them an answer that satisfied them and saved the faith of a car full of kids.
As I drove down the highway toward home, however, I realized the possible repercussions of what I'd done. I began to picture the potential conflict at school should my explanation get out. Sheesh, the teachers were going to kill me, not to mention the other moms. I'd been so proud, but really, I'd kind of screwed up.
So I called my son's teacher to warn her.
"Thanks," she said sarcastically. "I'll think of a way to pay you back."
Now I was really unsettled. My son's teacher was plotting revenge, I'd sent the kids off with a potentially explosive story to share with their friends.
Bad, bad Mom.
My Mission Statement
I write to serve, to unite, to educate. I write to share literature and flesh out ideas that may be of interest to others. I write to document an emotion, experience, or a blip in time. My mission is to write in such a way that the reader is reminded that we can find humor in all situations. It's one of the great blessings of life.