Dear Badass Santa

Dear Santa:
I know I've already written you on behalf of my children, but I feel compelled to write one last letter on behalf of all of my friends who are mothers; none of us really has time to write, but I'm a fast typer and my children are more susceptible to the effects of Benadryl. Thus I author this letter for all of us in this quiet moment.

We've all just about had it with the whole "Santa is watching you" thing. It's exhausting to constantly remind the kids of their need to behave well and stop smacking their sibling with the leftover tubes from the wrapping paper or slashing at each other with a broken ornament. And we're all trying to get through December without any trips to the ER, drunken incidents aside.

To bolster your power, several of us have purchased the Elf on a Shelf, carefully moving the Elf each night to put the fear of Santa in the kids. While some are motivated, others patiently explain to the adults that it's IMPOSSIBLE for the Elf to return to you each night to report on the day's meltdowns or triumphs. Then they pat our hands sympathetically and return to seeing how many turns it takes to twist off their sibling's ear.

So we, all mothers, are putting aside our usual requests for extra hours in the day, a full night's sleep, a wife, a cabana boy, a larger wine fridge. Instead we'd like to ask you to do something truly magical, truly time-saving: we want you to scare the crap out of our kids and put the fear of Santa in them once and for all.

Here's how it works:

Child A hits Child B in the head with some object. Child B picks up another object and hurls it at Child A, only to miss and break Aunt Helen's crystal cake platter. Suddenly, YOU appear. "What the hell is going on here?" you roar,  your belly shaking not so much like a bowl full of jelly but more like a sumo wrestler who's going to kick some ass. "Knock this shit off NOW or you're getting NOTHING, I mean NOTHING from me! I will be on you like white on rice FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE and make sure that no one gives you anything but coal. You feel me? I said, YOU FEEL ME?" Then with a quick finger to the side of your nose,  you disappear in a puff of smoke that leaves your big, badass size 14 bootprints on the floor.

Seriously, the need for hourly warnings or $29.95 Elf on the Shelf packages would disappear as quickly as you did. And just think of all the extra hours we'd have in each day.

Now, I know what you're thinking. This might be bad for the brand, the whole magical, merry thing. But think of how much your stock would go up with mothers around the world, driving up that "believe" meter to unheard of levels.  You'd be more than a hero, more than a god - you'd be a rock star. With groupies. Moms around the world might be waiting with cookies when you arrive, ready to do whatever it takes to make your journey better. And we'd keep the whole plan on the down low — we'd make sure our child's credibility would be called into question should they repeat the story to any adult. Though a little buzz around the playground might help make your ass-kicking visits fewer in number, so frightened would kids be by hearing the story from their BFF.

So think about it, Santa. It's a new world with new needs and brands have to move with it, and though we appreciate your new Facebook page with the insider's look at North Pole antics, it's going to take more than that to make our Christmas merry.

Uh oh, I hear the children stirring and those restraints were supposed to be removed before the kids fully awakened, so I have to sign off soon.

So let me just close by saying we hope to see you arrive and leave in a puff of smoke some day soon, leaving cowering children behind you and some eternally grateful mothers in front of you.

Love,
The mothers

Dear Santa....love, Madelena

Dear Santa:

I am writing as proxy for Madelena, who is too busy shoving crap into socks that she then ties up with Silly Bandz and leaves strategically about the house and down drains. She would very much like princess tape, Hello Kitty tape and a Fancy Nancy "ice cream thing". The most important part of that request is the tape - this is required to seal up the many important packages she makes every day from recycled paper and any object left within her reach - why, just yesterday she beautifully wrapped up a tampon with such flair...I think she might have a place in your wrapping headquarters one day. I was so delighted to find feminine protection in a four-year old's baby carriage, next to the tape measure she had taped shut and the doll with her eyes taped open, perhaps the victim of some type of interrogation earlier in the day. Oh, how she does love role play.

She would also like me to tell you just how good she's been. She has given up spitting at people until Christmas has passed, because she knows you are watching her. She has also just decided that YOU are her only friend and you're invited to her party, and that I am a bad, bad mama because moments ago I would not give her the hot glue gun to close the shoe box in which she had trapped her duck who is apparently also not invited to her party. I have to tell you, that's high praise - on any given day various members of her family and community are disowned and informed that they are not coming to her party. The party for her birthday in seven months, which she has been actively planning for the last five. I do hope you like jumpy houses.

Lastly, she asks that I tell you to bring her brother nothing at all. He is not in her favor at the moment (and not coming to her party) because he unwittingly threw her art project in the trash, not realizing the wadded up napkin with eggs in it was in fact an installation piece. After threatening to stomp on his eyeballs, she carefully removed the piece from the trash, lovingly placing it on her table and placing a flashlight - stolen from her brother - next to it to shine on it.

On a personal note, I would like to thank you for providing a fantastic threat that ensures minimal carnage during the holiday season - a hissed "Santa is watching you" evokes such fear of empty stockings that any uprising is quelled within minutes and leaves her trembling. In the future, please consider leaving her cash to pay for the therapy she will no doubt need to get through the paranoia-inducing holiday season.

I'd love to write more, but I have to rescue the cat from the stroller in which he has just been tied. He doesn't appear to be pleased, especially since he is blindfolded. Perhaps I am about to thwart yet another interrogation.

Have a fantastic holiday season, and maybe we'll see you next June at the party - unless you bring the wrong thing for Christmas. In which case, all bets are off and you should start sleeping with one eye open and remove all glue and tape from your home.

Love,
Madelena's Mama

______________________
If you enjoy my blog, please vote for me at Babble as a top blogger; look for Being Mom, currently at number 58. Thank you!

The Good Wife's Guide....Again

Originally posted on the blog in 2006, and the most searched for and viewed posting in the archives. I give you...my version of The Good Wife's Guide. Just in time for the holidays.

Someone sent me this Good Wife's Guide, originally published in 1955. I ask you, what wife doesn't need a handy dandy guide to know just how to succeed in her role? Isn't it enough that advertising and publishing tell us what to wear, how to pluck, preen and clean, how to improve our sex lives, our financial future and the appearance of our skin, hair and teeth? I was so inspired by this guide to being a Good Wife, which of course I aspire to, that I updated it for our times. To really understand how thoughtful my update is, please read the 1955 version first.

The 2010 Good Wife's Guide

Have dinner ready.

Call your husband on his way home from work, and tell him in specific detail what you’d like him to pick up, and it better be hot, DAMNIT. If your husband is like many others and needs a list for three items or more, write up your dinner request on a post it note the night before. Place the post it note on his steering wheel and repeat on the dash, in his daytimer, on his cell phone, his underwear, wallet and the inside both of his shoes. Unless he shows up naked and on foot, he has a pretty good shot of actually bringing home 50% of what you asked for and some disgusting fruit pie that was on sale and next to the register.

Prepare yourself.

If you’re looking bedraggled from your commute home or from a long day of wrestling short people into clothes, naps and behaving well, so be it. Less chance he’ll hit you up for sex in the first five minutes. If you’re looking particularly hot from a client meeting or a ladies-who-lunch day, immediately change into sweats, preferably his. Top it off with a ripped sweatshirt to ensure a good night’s sleep.

Be a little gay.

Not too gay, because men LOVE that girl-on-girl action and might get enthusiastic. Try just being just “I wear sensible shoes and fleece” gay, not San Francisco “I wear great shoes and glasses and designer clothing” gay.

Clear away the clutter.

Gather all the newspapers he’s left strewn about, last night’s beer can and perhaps some stale snack food found on the floor and put them in his favorite chair so he can be a dear and clean it up when he tries to sit down. Gather up school books, toys etc and throw them into the kids’ beds so they can be a dear and clean up before bed.

In the cooler months of the year, light a fire to provide a pleasant environment.

The fire needn’t be made of traditional kindling and wood, but can be comprised of all the smelly socks, sports jerseys made for young and lithe bodies no longer found in your house, and ripped underwear that you can’t bear to see one more time. If you use lighter fluid or kerosene (highly recommended for the greatest burn possible) be sure to open the damper. No need to knock anyone unconscious so early in the evening.

Prepare the children.

Let them know their father will be physically present but may not be engaged, and to just write down all of the little slights so they have a better record for their future therapists.

Be happy to see him.

Or at least the hot meal he better be carrying.

Greet him...

with the recycling or garbage that needs to go out. Lord knows that once he steps foot inside the door it’s a lost cause.

Listen to him.

This is a tough assignment, but practice listening in front of the mirror. Many people think that listening is done with the ears, but no, it’s all about facial expression. If possible, draw eyebrows slightly higher on your forehead so you also appear to be interested.

Make the evening his.

Turn on a game, SportsCenter or a Victoria’s Secret infomercial. He will enjoy himself while you have the bubble bath you so richly deserve. Be sure to lock the door to keep those pesky kids out, and immerse your whole head to block out any annoying screams.

Your goal: make it through the day without anyone dying and you’ve done your job. Pat yourself on the back on the way to the bubble bath.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

See note above about garbage or recycling greeting.

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner.

Call for delivery and enjoy the free dessert all by yourself.

Arrange his pillow.

If he is uncomfortable, he can put the pillow BEHIND his head all by himself.

Don’t ask him questions.

That will just start needless conversation that stands between you and your bubble bath.

A good wife always knows her place.

In the tub, with a glass of wine in one hand and People in the other. A pop-culturally literate and sweet smelling, albeit slightly tipsy wife is a happy wife. And one most likely to get up and do it all again tomorrow.

Missing out

My brother was picked on. Chased. Beaten up. Humiliated. And otherwise made to feel less than, different and like someone who was not worthy of a happy life. And in the end, he had just what his tormentors wanted - a tragic end witnessed by no one.

As we watch our "it gets better" videos and read the heartfelt pleas for better education of and instilling of morality in our youth, I am reminded of a day in sixth grade when such morality was not to be found. I watched my brother being chased down a hill by the school's toughest kid, with at least 50 kids running behind him, ready for the show. He was chased all the way down Aviary Road to the park at the bottom, where he was finally caught and thrown to the hard winter ground. The crowd began to shout "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" as the bully - easily twice the size of my brother - wrestled him and began punching his head. He fought back, but was helpless in that boy's grip — unable to stop the blows that came one after another. I was breathless and unable to even scream — at the memory of this, I feel that same nausea and fear taking over my body. I ran to a neighbor's house to plead with them to call for help, pleading in a choked voice for someone to call my mother, call the police, call someone....just please, please...leave my brother alone. That was to be my rally cry for the rest of his life, though often it was he that needed to stop hurting himself.

That scene was to be repeated many times in my brother's life. He wasn't gay or assumed to be gay, not that would have changed anything or made the bullying any more acceptable or expected. Still, ugly homophobic epithets were hurled at him like sharp stones everyday. Faggot. Queer. Shithead homo. Anything that could bruise a young boy's soul and leave him crippled for life. To this day, I have no idea how anyone sensed that he was different or worthy of this cruel attention. He was a little hyperactive, a little brilliant, very creative and — after moving 10 times before fifth grade — a little standoffish. That was it. No visible signs of "difference" or "kick me". Just some unseen invitation that only the cruelest could read and reply to.

As I watch my son grow up, his joy and love and kindness so visible to all, I wonder at what it was like for my mother to see her son so beaten in all ways. What it was like to see his same joy and love leave his eyes and heart and leave only a kid who started drinking at 14 to tamp down the pain. What could she have done, should she have done, was there anything at all...and I wonder if she too asks herself the same question.

I think of all the mothers of children who are victimized by bullying in this country — a recent article noted that over 160,000 kids stay home from school just to avoid the pain of bullying. I think of the principals who care and those who can't be bothered, of the adults who do step in and those who allow their own issues to step in the way of doing what's right and good. Of the people from all walks of life who have posted their own "it gets better" video, and of those kids who may — just maybe — have just a little more hope because an adult who had lived through their pain and acknowledged that it's more than just a bad day can tell them that yes, it does get better. And you need to be here to see that.

My brother died nine years ago, a long-delayed victim of bullying. He finally believed that his life would get better and in fact was getting better, but for him it was too late.  The taunts and punches had started a cycle of lifelong destructive behavior that stopped only two years before his death but waited in the wings to claim him.

As you sit down to dinner tonight with your children, look at their joy. Their openness. The way they shine. Think about what you are doing to keep that light going — teaching them what it means to be compassionate. To have integrity. What it means to be accountable in this world. What it means to know yourself and how valuable you are to not only your family but to the world. These aren't traits or values that just happen; we need to be as diligent about guiding and showing them each and every day as we are about teaching them to do addition or floss their teeth well. And if we are able to do that, to help them become people who are compassionate, accountable and confident in their value— then we can all believe that yes, yes indeed. It does get better...for everyone.


If you enjoy this blog, please feel free to vote for me on Babble; I'm currently in the top 50.  

Wally World

With less than one short week left in our stay in Guanajuato, it seemed that a family day was in order. After talking to various locals — both gringo and Mexican — I decided that a trip to a local hot springs was in order. I was told that it was family friendly. That it has thermal waters, to the tune of 95 degrees. That we need take nothing but our towels and sunscreen and rely on the local cafe for food and water. That it's less than an hour away, and more than worth the drive.

What I didn't know was that the trip would end up taking half a day, the thermal hot springs were actually a small part of a giant water park with 4-story slides, waterfalls, 2-story roller coaster like tubes of fun, and that I would love it almost as much as I love my Kindle.

In the past, I had written off water parks as the destination of people who stop at every Walmart on cross-country trips — they mark each one on the map ahead of time to ensure that none are skipped, and have photo albums of the family in front of each one. I had visions of tattered wife beaters on beet red bodies and trucker caps turned sideways, rusted RV's filling up the parking lot, kegs strapped to the back. Little did I know that here in Mexico, at least in the state of Guanajuato, it's actually a little bit of paradise for families with small children and college students with a need for speed.

To get to this still-unknown paradise, however, we needed a driver. The first driver I hired showed up in a Honda sedan, after assuring me he had seatbelts for all.

"Oh, you can put both kids in the front seat - it's just wide enough for them. No worries - I'm a good driver!" After explaining to him that the kids can't ride in the front, with or without the ONE shared seat belt he offered up, I had to break the news - Xote was a no go, at least with Ramiro.

"We NEVER do ANYTHING FUN!" yelled Shawn Joaquin, forgetting the many trips to museums, parks and trampoline camp every day. "You are NOT MY FRIEND!" yelled Madelena. "You are not my friend and you are NOT my Mama!"

Gregg simply hugged me, possibly to pin my arms down to keep me from striking anyone.

Within minutes I had Maria de Jesus on the line, asking if she could come from her ranch to take us to Xote....immediately. No problem, she replied, she'd be here in an hour.

Two hours later she arrived in her dusty, giant and completely safe Suburban. We all piled in and set out for Xote in high spirits. Two hours after THAT we had completed a full circle around San Miguel de Allende, Dolores Hidalgo, and various pueblos that had but two cows and a dusty shack to their name. On our insistence, we finally stopped to ask for directions, only to learn that Xote was a mere 2.5k from where we were. As we drove down the dirt road to what we hoped was mecca, we saw the tall slides...dry, empty of water or patrons. We saw an empty parking lot, and closed gates.

Holymotherofgod, this was our Wally World.

As I prepared to get all Clark Griswold on someone's ass — having checked the website that assured me that Xote was open 365 days a year — we saw a small gate open at the far end of the lot. There we learned that A) it was open and B) it had no food but chips, sodas, and beer. Fine. We were here. And damnit, it was going to be FUN.

And indeed it was; Shawn Joaquin surprised everyone with his whoops and fist-pumping as he came down the fast 2-story tubes in our laps, and Madelena surprised us with her caution and desire to hang out under a mushroom waterfall. The attendants turned on the massive four-story slide, and the adults took turns driving water painfully up their noses upon landing at the bottom. All in all, we spent four hours swimming, sliding, splashing and eating nothing but junk food. The families around us, all with complete picnics and gear, were kind and normal and seemingly amused by the one semi-gringo family with the aging adults who raced up the slides past the college students.

Best of all, I learned — once again — that Type A has no place in Mexico. There is a need to go with the flow, let go of expectations, and to let go of preconceived notions of what is or what will be. That the only thing one needs for fun is an open mind, a happy family...and sunscreen. The rest will take care of itself.