Santa's Negotiator

I was driving somewhere with my son, and it was a typical day.  We discussed his school day, the possibilities for dinner, and other ordinary things.  And then this happened:

"Mom, what does Santa bring to people that are bad?"

"I believe that naughty people get coal instead of presents,"  I stated confidently, remembering stories from my own childhood.  I felt that I had responded to the question appropriately, and gave myself a mental high-five.  A bit prematurely, as it turned out.

"What if you're a coal miner?" came from the backseat. 

"Uhhh..."  I blamed my lack of a response on my need to concentrate on my driving. My mind was completely blank.  Zane wasn't done.

"What if you need coal for fuel?"

"Doesn't coal become diamonds?"  

Those were good points, I had to agree.  They weren't questions that I would be able to answer with any clarity, however.  I suggested that Zane ask Santa next time he saw him, to see what he would say, and exhaled in relief when my suggestion was met with agreement.  I almost felt sorry for that poor Santa at the mall.

I also wondered why Zane's father never had to answer these sorts of questions!   

Santa's Dilemma

Note: After yesterday's complete downer, I'm posting something more lighthearted, because I really am trying to be more positive and cheerful. Really. It's not just a rumor! Again, apologies if I upset anyone yesterday. Also, I received a very lovely award from my friend Andrea and I will talk about that soon, I promise!

I've previously spoken of my need to get the "perfect" gift, and that need applies to making sure that my son has a wonderful time on Christmas morning. Zane is old enough that he can speak about what he likes, or does not like. He is very emphatic about it, at least for that moment. My husband and I were foolish enough to believe that this would make our Christmas shopping easier. Zane would tell us what he wanted, and mysteriously--without a chimney in sight--Santa would have that magical gift underneath the tree on Christmas morning.

Did I mention that I am learning this parenting thing as I go?

"What presents would you like for Santa to bring you, Zane?" I asked my son two weeks ago as we were driving home from daycare. He's not old enough to "make a list", so we had to drag it out of him between statements regarding which kid passed gas that day.

"All of them." Yep--That was a verbatim quote.

That was no help. We can't just arrive at the Toys'R'Us and tell the cashier that we want "All" of the toys. Where would we put them, especially since we'd have to sell the house to pay for them all? My husband and I agreed to try later a couple of days later, thinking that perhaps the idea needed to germinate a bit.

"Zane, what would you like for a Christmas present?" I asked him at lunch with the entire family. I thought that the presence of the grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins might be an inspiration.

"A reindeer," the boy announced. There was a collective "huh?" on all of our faces.

"A reindeer? Where are you going to put it?" my mother asked him.

"In the backyard."

Never mind the logistics of actually getting a reindeer; I am pretty sure that it is too darn hot here for that particular species. Plus, hunters are drawn like flies toward anything they can possibly shoot and eat. So no reindeer.

I tried again the next day.

"Zane, what would you like for Christmas?" I even clarified. "What would you like for Santa to bring to you as a present?"

"I don't want anything." Zane told me. "I have too many toys."

"Who are you and what have you done with my child?" I felt his forehead for signs of fever, and then Zane felt MY forehead to see if I had a fever. I may have hallucinated the entire exchange, after all. As much as I would love to applaud the altruism my child expressed, we all know what would happen if I took him at his word and there were no presents Christmas morning. Hell hath no fury like a child denied Christmas presents.

My husband and I have taken turns every single day to get some kind of consistent answer, since the deadline is looming. He's still interested in the reindeer, and he mentioned that he wanted a steam train...and dinosaurs, specifically a T-Rex...and Batman...and Legos...and a Christmas tree.

Anybody know how much it costs to ship a reindeer?

The Playland Event

Yesterday I had the great fun of taking Zane to the Witte Museum to meet up with a couple of my girly-type friends and their little boys. There is an exhibit showing at the moment of these huge animatronic insects/arachnids, and if there's creepy-crawlies to be examined, that's where most boys are. Zane was very excited, although as soon as he walked into the exhibit and was greeted by a ginormous wasp, his normal exhuberance was a bit dampened.

After the museum we all went to the nearest McDonalds for lunch, because that's what moms who want to wear out their little ones do. There was a playland at this store, so we got our food and let the little ones loose while we gossiped and chatted. All three boys are around the same age and size, and they were romping and chasing and climbing all through the playscape like they were having the best time ever. I naturally turned my head toward the sound of my son's effervescent and quite enthusiastic laughter...

...to find that Zane was not wearing pants. Or socks. He was in his pullup and his shirt and nothing else. I said what anyone in my shoes would say, which is WTF. Then I went over to my son, who wasn't really bothered by his pantsless state.

"Zane, where are your pants?"

"Up there," he pointed somewhere above vaguely.

"Go and get your pants and socks and put them back on!" I wasn't yelling or anything, and I was proud of myself for my restraint. My own mother would have had a major coronary.

"Don't want to put pants on," my boy says.

"Look, Zane..." I took a deep breath. "Do you see that sign?" I point to a sign that says that you must be under 4ft tall to play on the playscape. "That says that you have to have pants on to play on this ride."

Yeah, I lied. Sue me--other parents were starting to look at me funny. Hell, if I wasn't the one whose kid was running about half naked, I'd be looking at me funny, too.

"No," Zane stated unequivocally. I didn't want to resort to drastic measures, but a line had been drawn in the sand. Do NOT mess with Mama!

"That's it--I am calling Santa!"

I pulled out my cell phone and made like I was punching numbers. I held the phone to my ear.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Zane screamed, and of course, started crying piteously. So now I'm the mother of the half-naked kid having a meltdown at McDonalds. Who is also an evil bitch for torturing my son with Santa. Great.

Just then, another little boy brought me Zane's pants, which he had retrieved from the tunnels above us. I looked upon this child as a savior, because I am so severely claustrophic that there would be no way I was going up there. Zane was still sobbing. I made him go up there and find his socks and bring them back down, then helped him get dressed.

"Do you think you can manage to stay dressed, or do I still need to call Santa?" I ask my son. He agreed to remain entirely clothed for at least as long as it took him to forget the whole thing. Which, in Zane's World, is "five minute".

At least I got to finish my cheeseburger.

The Santa Chronicles

In 2008, we took Zane to see Santa, stood in line for more than an hour, and...



In 2009, we took Zane to see Santa, stood in line more than an hour, and...



Ever the gluttons for punishment, we tried yet again this year, stood in line more than an hour, and...



I think that we are seeing some progress! At least this time Zane stopped freaking out long enough to tell Santa what he wanted.

*All photographs copyright Noerr Programs, and special thanks to the very calm Santas they provided!