To believe or not to believe

My son is deeply troubled by the kids in his class who have decided to mount a "There is no Santa" campaign in the second grade classroom. They have yet to create posters or a campaign slogan, but they are slowly cutting kids from the herd to individually tell them that Santa doesn't exist. Shawn Joaquin isn't questioning whether Santa exists — come on, what really bright kid starts questioning THAT gift horse weeks before Christmas? — but he's bothered by the campaign.

"X said it and then Y said 'yeah, I think that's right' and then two more boys decided to believe him," he reported at dinner. "I think they're trying to be cool." I would have to agree with him; these are the same kids who will have that first beer or first puff because X is the self-proclaimed cool kid who will be there to offer it to them. In fact, he's probably packing a candy cigarette deep in his backpack, just waiting for the opportunity to strike it up with a gummy match and say "hey, wanna drag?"

It pains me that peer pressure exists in a second grade classroom, but I am heartened by my son's firm belief that their anti-Santa campaign is just a sad commentary on their lack of imagination and general creativity. Madelena has dismissed them as future recipients of sticks and rocks in their stockings. I hope they get a can of whuppass with said sticks, simply based on their desire to rob other kids of their belief. But I also have to reflect on all of the magic that Santa represents, and if at the tender age of seven these kids are letting it go...what does their future look like?

Dear X and Friends:

By saying goodbye to Santa at seven, you are letting go of one of the easiest bits of magic to believe in. Here's how it goes: You believe in a guy that brings you a gift on Christmas. One that you've fervently wished for and written down in crayon on a piece of recycled paper, shoved in an envelope merely addressed "Santa, North Pole", and left in your mailbox. And POOF, on Christmas morning, said gift appears. Living proof of that magic's existence. X = Y. The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy have similar X = Y stories, but none so fully supported as the man in the red hat's. But if you can't buy off on that and start to question it even before you can type his name into Snopes, what else will you miss out on? What else requires faith, a belief in magic and ignoring the loud voices of disbelievers?

True love. The belief that there are one or two people in this world who will really see you, love you, support you and want to be there from your best years through your more challenging years and future incontinence. And the faith that you will somehow find your true love through friends, happenstance or eHarmony.

Faith in other humans. Believing that most people, when given the chance, will actually do the right thing - regardless of what you'll someday read on CNN or have beamed to your brain remotely by whatever future news implant Rupert Murdoch's great-grandson has created.

Successful parenting. It is only through faith and belief in a little bit of magic that you and your future partner will be able to conceive, adopt or otherwise become parents to soft little creatures that you have the ability to break. Like an atheist in a foxhole, you will look for any glimmer of some higher power or guidance that will keep you from screwing up your child, somehow messing with those malleable little heads in such a way that they will move 3,000 miles just to avoid Thanksgiving dinner with you.

These are just a few of the things in front of you that require faith, creativity and a belief in a little bit of magic. Don't let go of it just yet, and don't take it away from the kids around you who are buoyed up by their belief in the big guy. Who rush from their rooms in the morning to see if their Elf on the Shelf has indeed returned from the North Pole after reporting their good behavior to Santa. Who write not just one or two but multiple letters to Santa, including one that just asks what kind of cookies he'd like to eat on Christmas night...knowing how tired he must be of sugar cookies with too much icing. Who will, on Christmas morning, awaken with more joy in their hearts than a mere present can be responsible for - the joy that comes from knowing that magic has visited their house in the cold, dark night. Leaving behind more than just a scooter or a book or a toy, but a reaffirmation that he or she has been a good kid that's been not just watched by but watched over by a jolly old soul all year...and all the years before.

Merry Christmas, X and Friends - here's hoping that you still hear the sleigh bells this year, and that your voices of skepticism don't drown out the sound of their magic for others around you.

The big day cometh...

For a year and two days, Madelena has been planning her 5th birthday party and wielded the event as a weapon: if on any given day you fell out of favor, you were NOT invited to her birthday party. At various times the entire family was banned from the hoopla, and she was going to enjoy it with her stuffed duck — Carmella — and Santa. On other days, her entire preschool class was also invited, minus two boys she referred to as 'bollies" and/or those not currently bending to The Will of Madelena.

Throughout the year, when turned down for any item, activity or food, Madelena followed up with "but on my birthday, I can have it, right Mama?" This phrase was used indiscriminately and often. Thus, "Yeah, sure" became a standard reply; if all requests were honored, today's guests could look forward to unfettered access to ravioli, trampolines, squirrels, feather boas, blue eye shadow, extra sharp scissors, gummy worms and unicycles. Performers would include face painters, storytellers, ballerinas and a pirate she became both enamored of and frightened by on the corner of Telegraph and Durant. The evening would end with a water fight and fireworks, and might then move on to Pump It Up for an after party. Alas, our backyard, pizza and a sparkly jumpy house will have to suffice.

No no no....thank YOU

Everyone expects a card or something made of macaroni on Mother's Day. What few expect is to have their heart broken.

The night before Mother's Day I had a date night with Gregg. When we came home, everyone was in bed and konked out and I was giddy with freedom and my unfettered access to DVRd programming beyond Wild Kratts. At 11pm I came downstairs, flushed with freedom and the joy that comes from watching TV without a single person asking "why", "what" or "can I have". Then I came downstairs and found the kids' very early cards for me. Though they stood between me and the sleeping pill I had been dying to take for weeks — finally banishing insomnia — I decided to go ahead and read them in advance of my actual day of celebration.

Madelena had drawn a variation on a spider and a birthday cake, two very popular themes in her portfolio now. Thankfully, these were not multimedia pieces; those have often left permanent stains or wounds after handling. Shawn Joaquin, the simpler artist, had created something on the back of a piece of paper recycled from work with the specter of the "Visa" logo shining through. I was ready for a battle scene with some hearts, maybe a picture of all of us in the middle of tall buildings or sunshine or grass. But instead I found a sentiment that immediately brought me to tears: "Thank you for adopting me."

Unless you are an adoptive family, perhaps the reason for the heartbreak is puzzling. After all, how often do our children thank us for doing anything? Do we not deal with entitlement struggles all the time, from their expectation that you will of course buy those stomp light shoes at an exorbitant price to yes, you will replace them in four months when they outgrow them?

As an adoptive mother, however, I deal with constant ignorance that calls into question my benefits from adoption; people often saying how lucky my child is to have been adopted by me, how nice it is that I can care for "someone else's child", how lucky they are to have a home with me instead of whatever their fate might have otherwise been. But the luck is mine, the gift is mine, and the gratefulness to the heavens, gods, energy, universal spirit or whatever brought these children into my life...is all mine. And never do I want my son to think that he needs to be any more grateful to have been adopted by me than another biological child might be grateful that his parents hooked up after a night out at a tiki bar. Never do I want him to think that he needs to thank me for becoming his mother. Thank me for washing his socks, for teaching him how to ride a scooter, for helping him to become a man that a woman can love. But never thank me for adopting him...that pleasure is all mine.

As I look at my beautiful, dark-skinned children I see MY children. I don't see someone I took in, someone I chose to help. I see the children who, as I have often said, were born from my heart if not my body. And like nearly every other mother on Mother's Day, I know that underneath the expectation that we be lauded for our year-round efforts is our very own gratefulness to the very beings that made us mothers. However they came to be in our arms.