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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!