Santa Saga

I knew it would happen this year. Second grade. First year at the upper elementary. Bus ride.

Last night we went to a party with a guest appearance by Santa. The Cuddle Bear and Princess were very excited. Buddy and Peanut just wanted the special candy cane that went along with the sit on Santa's lap. The Cuddle Bear turned to me and said, in a threatening-sounding voice, "is that the real Santa, Mom?"

"I guess you should ask him."

Parenting rule Number Three: take the pressure off yourself whenever possible.

The Cuddle Bear marched right up to Santa, shoved another kid off him, poked her finger into his nose, and said sternly, "are you the real Santa, or WHAT?"

He said he was. I don't blame him. I would've said whatever I thought she wanted to hear, myself.

So anyway. This morning Princess was pretty jacked up about Santa.

Dad! Someone on the bus said Santa wasn't real!
I've heard people say that before (isn't he a champ?).
But I know he is! I checked his beard last night! Sometimes you can tell by their ears if the beard's real! And this one was!

Incidentally, it was one of the saddest Santa beards I've ever seen. It didn't even fully cover his mouth. And I'm not sure how she justified Rudolf. The elf, now he was pretty realistic. But the reindeer was a woman dressed in an elf costume with fabric antlers and a blinking nose identical to one the Cuddle Bear owns. I suspect Princess is going with the If it Doesn't Fit in My Paradigm, It Will Now Officially Not Exist theory.


And I know he's real! Because last year he gave me a boot ornament!

Crap.

Mom! I checked! And Santa didn't bring me a gift today!
Well, no, I imagine not. From what I hear, he only does that on Christmas Eve.
But not sometimes! Sometimes he comes early! Or late!
Hmmm. I don't know about that. (Mom makes quick exit. Mostly because Mom is not in a good mood from behavior yesterday. All yesterday. All of it)

Also, she has colored Santa a copious amount of pictures, but to my knowledge there is still no actual letter asking for anything in particular, so I don't even know how to paint myself further into my corner.

On the bright side, I think I have a good idea what this week's behavior has been about. Because heaven forbid Princess to say, "hey Mom! Someone said there's no Santa! And I hadn't thought about that before! And I think she maybe might be right! And I'm kind of upset about it!"

Only in a world that doesn't exist yet.

Defective Oatmeal

Into the days a every healing RADling, a little regression must fall. And fall, it is. The days following Princess's rash of Christmas fun acceptance have not been pretty. All was well, and I was taking some deeper breaths. The Wednesday morning arrived.

Good morning Princess! What kind of oatmeal do you want?
What's "oatmeal?"

Crap.

Then Peanut explained to Princess what oatmeal is. Which Princess hates, since being "taught" by a younger sister is not her goal in this game. Then the Cuddle Bear said, "why do you have your angry face on?"

It went downhill from there.

A sampling of joy:
My oatmeal's cold
My oatmeal's too hot.
There's too much water in it.
There's not enough water in it.

Then she threw it away.

I haven't quite figured out this reaction- throwing away food and treats when she's mad. She doesn't hoard, but she does have food issues. Any time she knows a snack or meal is due, she hovers, as if she thinks there's a good chance we'll all sneak off and eat without her. She will carb load at any opportunity until you'd swear she'll explode. Which she will. In the middle of the night. So the best I can figure is she does it to punish herself. Or me.

Anyway, that was the high point of the day. She crabbed and fussed all the way to school about how I don't take care of her because I don't feed her, and I don't love her because I don't treat her the way I treat everyone else. I hummed my "Different Choices Make Different Things Happen" song softly to myself. She stopped two blocks before school and had an uneventful school day. Of course. Then she had a hard time at swim, so she beat her sister up in the car all the way home. For shouting in her ears. Which in Princessese is apparently translated as, "singing Christmas songs."

It carried over into the next day. And the next day. And the next. And now there is a very tired Mommy around these parts. I don't even know what the trigger was, so I can't get at it.

My therapeutic parenting needs a brush up. Or I need to go shopping. Not sure which.

More Christmas Merriness. Or Something.

After a special family Christmas service (and hearing a history of the Christmas tree that I hope is true, anyway), each child received a tree-shaped lollipop. Three of my four children asked for help opening the stubborn, difficult, *!@# wrapper. One announced repeatedly she could do it herself, she could do it herself, look! she was doing it herself because she could do it herself and

CRACK!

The lollipop was in a thousand shards on the floor. We steeled ourselves for the torrent of anger and blame that was sure to follow.

Tears.
I dropped my sucker!
Tears.

After a stunned moment, I got her another lollipop. I held it out to her. She stared.

What will you do differently this time?
Will you please help me?

And right there was the first time she's broken something and not acted as if she didn't care or blamed someone else. She acted like a regular kid.

Oh, Christmas Tree

Saturday was Tree-Getting Day. Everyone knew it. I had an early morning meeting; everyone waited for me to get home. Josh made a phone call. Then another. Then another. Everyone waited for him to be done. All that waiting can make a person anxious. In the midst of all this waiting, no one thought to comb her hair or brush her teeth. Until, that is, Buddy used the bathroom in a manner not conducive to retrieving hair and teeth supplies. Ahem. I was the one who discovered this intrusion, so Buddy knew I was waiting to care for the Cuddle Bear's hair. So, when Buddy was, ahem, finished, he came downstairs to let me know the bathroom was open for the Cuddle Bear's and Peanut's use. And Princess instantly vanished. We all knew quickly to where, however, as the strains of Princess shouting at the Cuddle Bear and Peanut for "being in her way" were to be heard from the vicinity of the second story bathroom.

I called Princess downstairs, and stomping she came.

WHAT!!!
You went upstairs because you heard Buddy tell me Peanut and the Cuddle Bear could use the bathroom
NO!!!
and now you're yelling at Peanut and the Cuddle Bear for being in your way
BUT THEY ARE!!!
so why don't you come sit here on the steps with me while we wait for them to be done.

RAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!(clawbitekickscreamfusspinchrepeat)

Hmmm this is interesting. I wonder what your big feeling's name is.
RAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!(clawbitekickscreamfusspinchrepeat)
Oh, I bet I know! I bet you think you don't deserve to go get a Christmas tree. So you're going to make sure you don't.
(silence. stillness)
I don't want to get a Christmas tree. Christmas trees are boring.
That's it, isn't it. Ok, you just told yourself a lie. So I'm going to say the truth. You deserve to go get a Christmas tree. You deserve to do fun things. You are good.
No. I don't want to. 
Oh. There was another lie to yourself. Ok. My turn. You deserve to go get a Christmas tree. You deserve to do fun things. You are good.
No. I'm not. 
Let's change this game. How about we both say the truth together. You deserve to go get a Christmas tree. You deserve to do fun things. You are good.
(silence)
Ummmm I couldn't hear you. Try whispering. I deserve a Christmas tree.
I deserve a Christmas tree.  
Now try a regular voice. I deserve to do fun things.
I deserve fun things.  
Can you shout with me? I AM GOOD!
I AM GOOD!

Her  whole face changed. It had light inside it. We shouted together a few more times, and a huge smile spread over her face. We put on our coats. And we got that Christmas tree.

We deserved it. 

Sweat and Tears

I've semi-given up on the whole pe.e thing. As in, I'm here if Princess wants help, but I'm not trying to "potty-train" her anymore. If I notice she's wet herself, I tell her to change and she does. If she asks why, I remind her she deserves to feel clean and dry and she changes clothes. If we're going somewhere that doesn't jive with urine, I help her pack a bag to carry and she carries it. Annoying, very very annoying, but not a big deal. I figure either she'll use the toilet before she's married, or she'll marry a very understanding man.

But two days after Thanksgiving, she had wet through several layers of clothing three times that day. The fourth time she announced she was going to use the bathroom, and came out soaked through. Again. I told her to change. She did. Then she bounced off the walls.

-Hmm, Princess. I think I spy a big feeling.
NO!
-I wonder if you know what it is?
NO!
-Hmm.
NO!

Continued wall bouncing.

-Princess, I noticed you started having that big feeling after the last time you wet your pants. Maybe you could even write why!

Stillness.
Paper and pencil.

Here Mom.:
When I'm exsided I get kind of shy when we have (company) like when tells someone that I pe.e myself.

-Oh. So you don't like that you wet your pants, and that people can tell you wet your pants.
No.
-It makes you embarrassed.
Yeah.

-Hmm. You know you don't like to wet your pants. And you know the only way to not wet your pants is to pe.e in the toliet. But you're not pe.eing in the toilet. Something is keeping you from using the toilet. I wonder what it is?

Paper and Princess exit room.
Paper and Princess return:
"I'm  (thinking) a bout when I pe.e my self it  (makes) me qiet all  and wheerr (weird?) that I have to (clean) my selv."

-Oooh. I bet it does make you feel that way. I bet it does feel pretty bad. Something seems to be keeping you from using the toilet...I wonder what?"

Exit/Return
Here Mom:
It makes me exided when we go places then I pe.e my self.

-Hmm. That sounds true, too. But you won't solve this problem until you figure out what is Keeping You From Using the Toilet.

Notice the deflection? She used a lot of "feelings words;" likely she was trying to find just the right one, the "magic feeling" that I would believe, even if it wasn't real. She had one last-ditch effort:

I'm sad that Uncle Pood and Aunt B and Dee left. I don't like it when they leave. And a tear dropped into my lap.

I am sure this was a true feeling. And tears are almost unheard of. So we sat and talked for awhile about missing them and how fun it was to have them here. But I am really pretty mystified, because, that was likely the reason she was wetting through her clothes instead of the usual m.o., really, what about the other 364 days??? So I rounded the conversation back to, "but you don't use the toilet ANY days, so, even though you're really sad they went home, that can't be What's Keeping You From Using the Toilet."

She went back to the table and wrote something about having wet pants making her shy (again), and I said hmm I wonder what's keeping you from using the toilet (again). I could tell whatever reason was sitting right up there in the front of her mind. She might not be able to verbalize it, but it was definitely RIGHT THERE. She actually broke into a sweat, and she looked panicked. She said, "can we stop doing this now?"

Absolutely, Baby. I do not want you to get stress out about this. It's ok.

Santa: Myth or Legend?

I am not super-big on Santa. Friendly stranger breaks into your house via the chimney while his reindeer poop on your roof, leaves his stuff in your living room and eats your cookies. Creeps me out. So when Buddy was little, we just didn't really talk about Santa. When he was two-ish, he started to get a confused look when people would ask if Santa had come to his house and to be uncomfortable with their confused looks when he said no. So he asked what this whole Santa deal was about, and I told him.

But then the girls came, pre-packaged with Santa lore. Especially fun was comforting a teary 3-year-old who spent two weeks excited beyond her brain capacity to "give Santa a hug when he comes to J's house," only to find that Santa had come and gone and left presents and she had missed it.

And things have gotten a little blurry.

Last year Princess wrote Santa a long and involved letter asking for a boot ornament. That was all. A boot ornament. And I, in my deluded short-sightedness thought, oh, how cute. A boot ornament. And I spent two weeks scouring the internet and the stores for a boot ornament. They are not as easily found as one might think. But find one I did.

Only she hadn't wanted a boot. She had wanted a boat. Which should have been obvious to me, since Buddy's favorite ornament is a boat, and Princess is never confident that what she has and likes is good enough.

Santa, as it turns out, cannot read first-grade spelling.

So it is now post-Thanksgiving, and Princess has in the last two days killed a small forest of trees to write letters for Santa. And Buddy is dropping several hints that maybe it's about time for her to drop this Santa thing already. And I am dropping Buddy not-so-subtle hints that this is not his area to meddle in and I will drop-kick him off Santa's sleigh if he continues.

And I don't really know what to do.

I do know Santa is not going to attempt to decipher second-grade writing this year. But I don't feel it's my place to burst the bubble, either. I'm adopting a, "well, I guess we'll see what happens I don't know," attitude.

But I can't shake the feeling that I've painted myself into a corner.

Cover Your Mouth

The Cuddle Bear handed me a Thanksgiving Present. She had worked hard on it, just for me. I looked down at my hand. In it was a small, cut-out circle of posterboard with a little smiley face drawn on it in crayon. I smiled and opened my mouth to thank her. Before I had the chance, she said:


This is for you, Mom. It's a mouth cover. You can put it over Princess's mouth so she can't bite your hand. Maybe you should keep it in the car, for when she screams.


This is my fear: that the environment I raise my children in will grow bitter, resentful, angry, twisted adults.
This is my hope: that the environment I raise my children in will grow compassionate, proactive, loving people.

Which one will it be?