Karma does come back often to bite one in the butt. I know this is true. The scars are my butt (and pride) are proof enough of that.
Years ago, when Bill and I were fresh, young, newbie parents who knew everything there was to know about parenting…even more than our parents who managed to raise us and our siblings, because we were younger, smarter, hipper and we had technology; okay, back on subject, years ago Bill and I made a very conscious choice to NOT make a big deal about Santa Claus with our children. We would make it clear what the true meaning of Christmas was and eschew any and all suggestion that the fat guy made their Christmas wishes come true. Our hearts were in the right place, really. We both were overwhelmed by the the spirit of gimmee-everything-I-want-because-I-asked-for-it-dammit that was all around us and just wanted our kids to be focused on the birth of the little Lord Jesus and to want to give, share and love.
Noble goals.
Altruistic goals.
Good goals!
Goals made by parents of a newborn child with no other parenting experience other than scraping meconium off their baby’s tender butt.
Still we persevered…vainly.
Our growing family, with a little help from the family and friends, tried their hardest to include the fat guy as much as possible. We grudgingly obliged but still made it clear that the gifts under “our” tree come from mom and dad who work their butts off for you because we love you and you, our children still managed to thrive and grow knowing that yes, there is a Santa Claus…at the mall, our church, their school, on tv and (in their reality) in their mommy and daddy. Our karma for our efforts extended further in that since we did not believe in the fat guy we were doomed to have to assemble all the trikes, bikes, Barbie Dream Houses, Barbie Campers and any other crazy-0assed Barbie contraption that contained at least 300 Barbie feet-sized pieces. all by ourselves on Christmas Eve. We were on our own as the fat guy, with his eight tiny reindeer, would pass over the Big Top.
Where the hell are Santa’s elves??
Not here under the Big Top because there was no love for the fat guy here and he and his elves were ho-ho-ho-ing over our karma.
But time has softened our edges a bit. We are now “experienced” parents who have come to learn what battle is worth going to war over versus the one we seek armistice over. In other words, Santa is okay. In fact, Santa is kind of cool. It turns out he doesn’t diminish our super powers at all and he only helps in the whole idea that this is a season for love, for caring, for sharing, for giving and to celebrate the little Lord Jesus’ birthday. Hey, Santa likes birthday cake too!…Yeah, we are “older”, “wiser” and tired now. We are counting on the future high-school-aged Daniel’s sisters to keep him from having a kegger in the sitting room while we watch Jeopardy in the family room because, on this one topic ONLY mom and dad were wrong.
So given the fact that we have caved and we now openly embrace Santa and all his santa-licious goodness one would thing we wouldn’t be dealing with the tears and trials of assembly of the toys Daniel tells Santa that he is wishing for. That’s what we were thinking as Bill fumbled, grumbled (and maybe cursed) while assembling with Daniel an early Christmas gift from Santa’s wish list…the Lego Sponge Bob Chum Bucket….Barbie’s Dream House was a piece of cake compared to this thing. Whatever happened to a plain old bucket of legos and a kid’s imagination? That’s what Bill grumbled. My dad, the giver of the Lego Chum Bucket, just laughed because he remembers our anti-Santa rhetoric back in the day.
Still I wonder after the ordeal of assembling this toy and-no-we-are-not-tearing-it-down-and-putting-it-back-together-ever-again I am wondering if the jolly, fat elf in red is really going to leave us twisting in the wind if Daniel gets this Quercettiu Marble Run with motorized elevator. Okay so it isn’t 500 teeny-tiny pieces to assemble but it may as well be come Christmas Eve night. I mean I do work in a hospital…on holidays…on Christmas Eve night…c’mon, Santa! It was on the boy’s wish list…the one he emailed to you. You could give a little love here…just one little elf, please.
Boys are easier!
Sheesh!
*falls over laughing*
You think the Chum Bucket is bad? Try doing the giant Sponge Bob one. Have mercy! So much yellow….aaaahhhhh!
This situation is often aggravated by a manufacturer’s quest to present instructions in every applicable language while simultaneously incurring as little paper and printing costs as possible. The result is usually an enigma of pages smeared with teeny-weenie type. You’re reading English one moment, Spanish the next, and then suddenly reliving your high-school French classes.
This virtually guarantees that any particular person is going to get very little instruction in any particular vernacular. And of that, much of it will be tort-driven safety imperatives: “Caution! Do not use to circumcise!”—roughly translated from the Hebrew section of the instructions for my hedge trimmer.
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