From the moment I knew I was going to raise a child, the one thing I decided to base all of my parenting principles on was that I would not be like my mother. Since this revelation occurred to me shortly after the birth of my daughter at the precious age of 17, outside of the protection and blessings of a celestial marriage and while still domiciled under the roof of my devoutly religious parents, I wasn’t just creating my own parental identity but an alternate universe of parenting to the one I grew up in.
I envisioned the creation of an open, honest, educational, fun, environment where her inner talents would be nurtured and set free to grow at whatever pace this beautiful little spirit would dictate. This ideal foundation would come from a home free from oppression, repression and above all free from the fear of the wrath of God.
Fast forward 18 years and the result of this plan to launch myself into uncharted parental territory is that I find myself trying to navigate this parallel universe without a tour guide or even a handbook. I see now why people choose a religious lifestyle. It makes parenting so simple. All of the decisions are made for you; all of the difficult discussions have been outlined and approved in advance. There are black and whites and rights and wrongs and someone else made the rules, so you're just the messenger. What I’m doing requires so much thinking and talking - it’s exhausting.
The phone rings. It’s 10:00 pm. My husband is out of town and I’ve only just successfully put the two young children to bed following the double routine of potty, bath, teeth, potty, pajamas, “sleep with me for 1 minute” and finally sleep. I’ve tidied the kitchen, started the wash cycle for the PE kit my son needs to wear the next day, packed the book bags for the morning and have just let myself settle in to read maybe 2 more pages of the book I’ve been struggling to finish for 4 months before I crash into the wall of sleep myself.
Child 1: “Hi Mom. What’s up?”
Me: “Nothing much, just getting ready for bed. What’s going on with you?”
Child 1: “Well….I need to talk to you about something.”
“Crap!” I think to myself. No good can come from the need to talk to me about something. And I’m too tired to deal with what this something might be: she’s failing school; she’s run out of money; the druggie roommate has stolen her new laptop…
Me: “So spill it.”
Child 1: “I’ve been talking with some friends and I’m really scared of losing my virginity.”
Silence.
Child 1: “Mom, are you still there?”
Me: “Yes I’m here.”
Child 1: “Well?”
Me: “Well what? You should be scared. Terrified. Don’t ever do it and you won’t have to worry about it.”
One thing that has proved difficult about having such a large age gap between children is the need to switch from handing out quick, easy, decisive, directives – “Finish your brussel sprouts;” “Don’t hit your brother;” “Stop biting your shirt” - to giving thoughtful, honest, gentle, moral advice phrased to guide responsible choices, but not command a specific course of action.
Child 1: “Mom, seriously. Come on. I’m really upset about this. A bunch of us were talking about it and the ones who have done it say that it’s horrible, painful, you bleed and tear…it’s scary.”
Growing up as the daughter of “the girl who got pregnant in high school,” I always felt strongly that she should not feel any shame or shyness about sex. We’ve openly discussed sex many, many, many times. We’ve talked about the mechanics and physical aspects; we’ve reviewed the emotional repercussions and maturity required; we’ve discussed safety, pregnancy prevention and sexually transmitted diseases. We covered everything – except how to enjoy it.
No matter what your religious or personal morals tell you to teach your children about when it’s appropriate to have sex, the one thing we should all be teaching our girls is that we should enjoy it when it does happen. Talk about a true test of true parenting skills.
It’s difficult to ever think of your kids as “grown up,” but in order to continue this conversation I had to remind myself that by the time I was 18, I was living on my own, working full time, and raising a 1-year-old as a single mother. Grown up is not an age – it’s a state of mind. The more information she has, the more in control of her own body she can be and the more responsible decisions she can make coming from a place of self-confidence and security. Suck it up and talk to her like you know what you are doing.
So we talked about finding the right balance of lubrication and not relying on what comes on a condom to be sufficient. We talked about the benefit of having a partner with whom you are comfortable and can take your time with. That building up to intercourse over months (or even better - years) of “messing around” will teach you about what you and your partner both enjoy.
By the end of the conversation, I felt like Dr. Ruth, which was really hilarious seeing as I’m about the most sexually repressed and confused woman I know. I was just glad this was over the phone so she couldn’t see how much hair I’d pulled out in uncomfortable nervousness during the course of our discussion. Overall, though, I felt relief. She is now headed in a direction so completely opposite to the one I followed at her age that she will have her own alternate universe from which to guide her relationships and thus hopefully avoid the meteor showers I had to navigate my way around.
Me: “So, do you feel better now?”
Child 1: “Yes, much better. Thanks mom.”
Me: “No problem. Now it’s your turn to make me feel better.”
Child 1: “Don’t worry. I’m not going to have sex. Ever.”
Me: “Perfect. Now both of us can sleep well tonight.”
Child 1: “Oh and mom?”
Me: “Yes.”
Child 1: “Don’t tell dad.”
Me: “Never.”
Tuesday 18 December 2007
Rebuttal from a Toxic Wife
This article irritates me:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/global/main.jhtml?xml=/global/2007/01/16/ftwives116.xml&page=1
It is interesting how the men in this article seem to feel the money coming in belongs to them and not to the family. I'm sure these men don't drive around in economical, practical little SMART cars while their wives spend extravagant amounts of money on nannies and house cleaners. They don't empty their trash at work or clean up after the lunch that they did not prepare for themselves during the day. They do not have primary responsibility for their children. Why do they resent their wives for treating themselves to the same lifestyle?
They seem to think that they didn't choose the life they are living, and, more importantly, don't get anything out of it. I'm sure the shoe polisher used as an example in this article as a superfluous expense also polishes the husbands shoes. (If not, then I believe he would be justified in asking for a divorce and an exemption from spousal support.) Did these men honestly think that marriage meant they would be living with Mary Poppins by day and Tracy Lords by night? Were their mothers like that? Or were they raised by hired help?
They are oblivious to the fact that the "emptiness" of their wives is most likely due to the empty life they have provided by focusing on their egos and financial liquidity and disappearing into work. What woman wouldn't be empty when money is thrown at her to replace attention, affection and respect?
Women also have fantasies about marriage that get quickly shot down. You believe that you will continue to have a boyfriend who will organize and be emotionally present on fantastic dates instead of having to resort to girls nights out just to talk to other adults who view you as an equal. You believe you will have input and influence on your life together instead of finding the reality that his career path is now the compass for your life. You believe that marriage will not change how you crave and relate to each other physically. That he will continue to respect the boundaries of your body and thus seduce you with love and understanding instead of merely coming to bed naked and being upset that you aren't physically present every time that happens.
If they think for a minute they would feel life was more equitable if their wife worked, they would be shocked by the responsibility they would have to themselves take on or hire out to somebody. How could they take business trips or work late every evening if their wife had her own busy career and might be traveling or working late as well? They'd have to at least get someone to water the plants and let the dog out. No matter how much money you make, you still need someone to do the basics tasks such as make sure the money is accounted for and bills are paid, doctors bills are submitted to insurance and the subsequent non-payments by insurance are followed up on repeatedly. Who gets to be home for any contractors or deliveries? Who does the grocery shopping so that there are at least ready made meals on hand? Who keeps the house staff from stealing from you? This doesn't even include the responsibilities to the children. What happens when the kids are sick or get suspended from school? Who steps in as caregiver when the Nanny quits or sends you a text that she's not showing up today? Even the most staffed household needs a responsible leader and backup person.
Getting married and having kids is an expensive thing to do both financially and emotionally, but there is some reason that we are driven to it. There must be something we get out of it that makes up for all of that. We're willing to put endless amounts of effort into attaining cars, houses and bank accounts. Companionship. Support. Comfort. Friendship. Love. Are those things in life these men feel they don't need to work for?
Any man over 35, married or single, still needs someone to depend on for those basic elements of life. Perhaps these poor, put-upon, rich men are better suited for sharing their life with someone more selfless, someone willing to put their needs on hold, provide them with clean clothes, warm meals and comfort while they enjoy the fruits of their white collar labor. Actually, I'm sure a few of their mothers would be more than happy to take them back.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/global/main.jhtml?xml=/global/2007/01/16/ftwives116.xml&page=1
It is interesting how the men in this article seem to feel the money coming in belongs to them and not to the family. I'm sure these men don't drive around in economical, practical little SMART cars while their wives spend extravagant amounts of money on nannies and house cleaners. They don't empty their trash at work or clean up after the lunch that they did not prepare for themselves during the day. They do not have primary responsibility for their children. Why do they resent their wives for treating themselves to the same lifestyle?
They seem to think that they didn't choose the life they are living, and, more importantly, don't get anything out of it. I'm sure the shoe polisher used as an example in this article as a superfluous expense also polishes the husbands shoes. (If not, then I believe he would be justified in asking for a divorce and an exemption from spousal support.) Did these men honestly think that marriage meant they would be living with Mary Poppins by day and Tracy Lords by night? Were their mothers like that? Or were they raised by hired help?
They are oblivious to the fact that the "emptiness" of their wives is most likely due to the empty life they have provided by focusing on their egos and financial liquidity and disappearing into work. What woman wouldn't be empty when money is thrown at her to replace attention, affection and respect?
Women also have fantasies about marriage that get quickly shot down. You believe that you will continue to have a boyfriend who will organize and be emotionally present on fantastic dates instead of having to resort to girls nights out just to talk to other adults who view you as an equal. You believe you will have input and influence on your life together instead of finding the reality that his career path is now the compass for your life. You believe that marriage will not change how you crave and relate to each other physically. That he will continue to respect the boundaries of your body and thus seduce you with love and understanding instead of merely coming to bed naked and being upset that you aren't physically present every time that happens.
If they think for a minute they would feel life was more equitable if their wife worked, they would be shocked by the responsibility they would have to themselves take on or hire out to somebody. How could they take business trips or work late every evening if their wife had her own busy career and might be traveling or working late as well? They'd have to at least get someone to water the plants and let the dog out. No matter how much money you make, you still need someone to do the basics tasks such as make sure the money is accounted for and bills are paid, doctors bills are submitted to insurance and the subsequent non-payments by insurance are followed up on repeatedly. Who gets to be home for any contractors or deliveries? Who does the grocery shopping so that there are at least ready made meals on hand? Who keeps the house staff from stealing from you? This doesn't even include the responsibilities to the children. What happens when the kids are sick or get suspended from school? Who steps in as caregiver when the Nanny quits or sends you a text that she's not showing up today? Even the most staffed household needs a responsible leader and backup person.
Getting married and having kids is an expensive thing to do both financially and emotionally, but there is some reason that we are driven to it. There must be something we get out of it that makes up for all of that. We're willing to put endless amounts of effort into attaining cars, houses and bank accounts. Companionship. Support. Comfort. Friendship. Love. Are those things in life these men feel they don't need to work for?
Any man over 35, married or single, still needs someone to depend on for those basic elements of life. Perhaps these poor, put-upon, rich men are better suited for sharing their life with someone more selfless, someone willing to put their needs on hold, provide them with clean clothes, warm meals and comfort while they enjoy the fruits of their white collar labor. Actually, I'm sure a few of their mothers would be more than happy to take them back.
Monday 17 December 2007
Santa's Watching
Santa’s Watching
The December drama for a room “mum” does not end with nativity costumes. The next step in the creation of the perfect childhood scenario of winter here in England includes the traditional “Santa’s Grotto.” While the name is simply another of the humorous semantic differences between the U.S. and UK versions of the English language, this one for me conjures up images of Hugh Hefner in a Santa suit surrounded by his gaggle of blonde, merry elves, which makes me uncomfortable when we discuss creating this land of make-believe for children. However, the grotto of Santa is steeped in British tradition and if there’s one thing you learn living in England it’s that you don’t mess with tradition.
Santa’s Grotto has a fairly straightforward checklist of requirements: decorations, gifts for the children – oh and a volunteer to act as Santa. It’s the last one that led to me nearly being labeled as the mum who killed Christmas.
“There’s no money in the budget to hire a Santa,” I was told by the PTA committee. The same PTA committee, incidentally, who 2 months ago requested a parent’s poll in order to generate ideas for spending the ₤3,000 (that’s equivalent to $6,000 U.S.) they raised last year for no apparent reason.
“And the person needs to be CRB checked (criminal background report which takes 3-4 months to complete), and we don’t want a member of staff because the children will recognize them.” So no problem – just go out and find a man who has a CRB certificate, who is available on a Friday afternoon for 2.5 hours to sit in a fat suit and shout “Ho Ho Ho” for FREE! Don’t you know tons of men who would love to do that?
Because it’s human nature that we are less kind to the ones we love, the first person I asked was my husband. His interest was peaked a bit by the request to be part of a “Grotto,” but as soon as I dispelled the Playboy image that immediately sprung to his mind; he did not simply decline, but thoroughly rejected me by laughing in my face. “A 6’3”, 185 pound Santa is ridiculous.” Offers of unlimited and uninhibited sex weren’t even enough to rope him into it. Since that was all I had to bargain with, I urged other mom’s in our class to try similar tactics with their husbands, but we soon realized that many of us had already used the sex card for some other horrible holiday, family or work event we needed them to escort us to, so we came up empty handed.
On breaking the news to the PTA that we would be having a Christmas Grotto with no Santa, the e-mails came pouring in. “This cannot be. My children will be disappointed if they don’t see Santa at the fair.” “How will I tell my child that Santa was too busy to visit their school this year?” and my personal favorite, “My son will be gutted by this devastating news.” Seriously?
Only then did I fully realize that this Santa’s Grotto wasn’t for the children at all – it was for the parents. These moms seemed a bit too distressed by the idea of their children experiencing “disappointment.” They really don’t know how to parent unhappiness.
I’m all for protecting kids against emotional scars – wouldn’t everyone like to see a world where psychiatrists go out of business due to the overwhelming state of joy around the globe? However damaging, disappointment is a messy and necessary part of life. Learning to discuss it with your children and helping them work through it by managing your own reaction to it is an important part of building the character of your future adult.
A wave of panic and pandemonium swept almost instantly through the PTA e-mail chain due to the obvious need to restore perfect order and harmony and eliminate the need for character building. Eventually some arm-twisting was done and monumental ideological concessions were made to solicit a teacher’s assistant from one of the classes to act as Father Christmas.
With that crisis averted, I was under the impression the remainder of the grotto was in good order. But the Practically Perfect Parents club never rests.
10 am on the morning of the fair:
PTA Nazi: “What time are you planning on meeting to decorate?”
Me: “Noon”
PTA Nazi: “That only gives you 1 ½ hours to decorate.”
Me: “Yes, there are three of us, and it is a fairly small shed, so we should be just fine.”
PTA Nazi: “You must budget time to handle disasters. For instance, what if you are half way through decorating and find you run out of tinsel? What is your contingency plan?”
Me: “Well, I suppose we will have to live with less tinsel.”
PTA Nazi is stunned into codfish-like, slack jawed silence as she imagines the decades of therapy her children will require having been faced with a tinsel-deficient tree. Oh, the horror!
PTA Nazi: “If I were you and I were running the grotto, I would be decorating right now.”
Me: “Actually if you were me, you wouldn’t be so uptight, so I doubt it.” Ok – that part I just said in my head, but really wished I had the guts to say out loud.
Once the grotto was picture perfect by 12:30, the other 2 elves and I celebrated over a glass of mulled wine while we helped our reluctant hero plump with pillows and stuff his thick black hair into the white, curly wig. PTA Nazi stuck her head in fully expecting to be able to criticize. After taking a look around at the winter wonderland of rich, red fabrics, beautiful fairy lights, and garland that perfectly coordinated with the tree decorations, she was quiet. It was Pottery Barn Perfect, as I purchased all of these matching items on clearance after Christmas several years ago. “His eyebrows are black. I suppose no one thought to bring some white pencil to make him realistic,” she said turning on her heels to leave before any of us could chuck our cups of Christmas cheer in her face.
The realization that this Santa’s grotto is all about the parents became more of an epiphany as I enjoyed the perspective of an Elf watching these children being brought to visit Santa. As the other elves and I observed the behaviors of the 200+ children that came through the door we couldn’t help but notice something that should be obvious to everyone. Children are terrified of Santa Claus.
Parents were pushing and prodding their petrified children, “Just sit next to Santa for a picture.” If they didn’t scream in protest, it was only because they were perhaps only more frightened of their parents. The ones who came willingly only stepped forward because they had either already lost the magical belief in the miracle of reindeer flight, and/or were eager to tease and insult the man they recognized was not in fact Santa Claus but an imposter who earlier that day sat them in the time out spot on the playground for playing Star Wars Jedi’s vs. Transformers a bit too realistically.
“Why do you think these children are so scared of Santa?” my sister-elf asked while we were clearing up the afternoon with a second glass of mulled wine. “Do you think it’s the white hair and the loud voice booming, Ho, Ho, Ho that makes them apprehensive?”
Actually, I think grandparent figures are generally loved and perceived by children to be safe, and kind. But Santa is someone entirely different than grandpa. He's more like a scary Uncle.
As kids, many of us were taught to fear God because he would stand over us on judgment day and replay all of our sins on some sort of big screen TV for everyone to see. Obedience was extracted through fear. We may have rejected teaching the concept of God as a vengence-seeking overloard to our children, but still turn to Santa Claus to be the heavy when it comes to monitoring behavior. He’s the bad cop to our good cop. “It’s not me who won’t buy you that toy. It’s Santa who will bring you a lump of coal.” It’s next-to-impossible to promise both unconditional love and strict consequences for unwanted behavior. So we must hide behind an all-knowing, all-seeing entity that can provide equal and just rewards and consequences.
Take a moment to think about what you (or other parents if you are a member of the Practically Perfect Parents club and therefore unable to self-actualize) are saying to your children this time of year “You’d better watch out. Santa sees you misbehaving.” The words to the songs we sing are terrifying, “He sees you when you’re sleeping…he knows if you’ve been bad or good.” When these kids walk into Santa’s Grotto and he asks, “Have you been a good little girl/boy this year?” What can they say? They can’t blame the spill on their brother or say it was the other kid who started it. He KNOWS. Kids aren’t inherently good. That’s why they have parents and teachers and Ritalin. They sometimes have to be threatened and forced into good behavior, and this white bearded man in red is the guy who sees just exactly how bad they have been. It’s their day of reckoning.
Parents aren’t inherently good either. We’re just bigger children who are now in the position to buy our own toys. Our day of reckoning comes when our children reach their teens. You'd better watch out....You'd better not cry.....
The December drama for a room “mum” does not end with nativity costumes. The next step in the creation of the perfect childhood scenario of winter here in England includes the traditional “Santa’s Grotto.” While the name is simply another of the humorous semantic differences between the U.S. and UK versions of the English language, this one for me conjures up images of Hugh Hefner in a Santa suit surrounded by his gaggle of blonde, merry elves, which makes me uncomfortable when we discuss creating this land of make-believe for children. However, the grotto of Santa is steeped in British tradition and if there’s one thing you learn living in England it’s that you don’t mess with tradition.
Santa’s Grotto has a fairly straightforward checklist of requirements: decorations, gifts for the children – oh and a volunteer to act as Santa. It’s the last one that led to me nearly being labeled as the mum who killed Christmas.
“There’s no money in the budget to hire a Santa,” I was told by the PTA committee. The same PTA committee, incidentally, who 2 months ago requested a parent’s poll in order to generate ideas for spending the ₤3,000 (that’s equivalent to $6,000 U.S.) they raised last year for no apparent reason.
“And the person needs to be CRB checked (criminal background report which takes 3-4 months to complete), and we don’t want a member of staff because the children will recognize them.” So no problem – just go out and find a man who has a CRB certificate, who is available on a Friday afternoon for 2.5 hours to sit in a fat suit and shout “Ho Ho Ho” for FREE! Don’t you know tons of men who would love to do that?
Because it’s human nature that we are less kind to the ones we love, the first person I asked was my husband. His interest was peaked a bit by the request to be part of a “Grotto,” but as soon as I dispelled the Playboy image that immediately sprung to his mind; he did not simply decline, but thoroughly rejected me by laughing in my face. “A 6’3”, 185 pound Santa is ridiculous.” Offers of unlimited and uninhibited sex weren’t even enough to rope him into it. Since that was all I had to bargain with, I urged other mom’s in our class to try similar tactics with their husbands, but we soon realized that many of us had already used the sex card for some other horrible holiday, family or work event we needed them to escort us to, so we came up empty handed.
On breaking the news to the PTA that we would be having a Christmas Grotto with no Santa, the e-mails came pouring in. “This cannot be. My children will be disappointed if they don’t see Santa at the fair.” “How will I tell my child that Santa was too busy to visit their school this year?” and my personal favorite, “My son will be gutted by this devastating news.” Seriously?
Only then did I fully realize that this Santa’s Grotto wasn’t for the children at all – it was for the parents. These moms seemed a bit too distressed by the idea of their children experiencing “disappointment.” They really don’t know how to parent unhappiness.
I’m all for protecting kids against emotional scars – wouldn’t everyone like to see a world where psychiatrists go out of business due to the overwhelming state of joy around the globe? However damaging, disappointment is a messy and necessary part of life. Learning to discuss it with your children and helping them work through it by managing your own reaction to it is an important part of building the character of your future adult.
A wave of panic and pandemonium swept almost instantly through the PTA e-mail chain due to the obvious need to restore perfect order and harmony and eliminate the need for character building. Eventually some arm-twisting was done and monumental ideological concessions were made to solicit a teacher’s assistant from one of the classes to act as Father Christmas.
With that crisis averted, I was under the impression the remainder of the grotto was in good order. But the Practically Perfect Parents club never rests.
10 am on the morning of the fair:
PTA Nazi: “What time are you planning on meeting to decorate?”
Me: “Noon”
PTA Nazi: “That only gives you 1 ½ hours to decorate.”
Me: “Yes, there are three of us, and it is a fairly small shed, so we should be just fine.”
PTA Nazi: “You must budget time to handle disasters. For instance, what if you are half way through decorating and find you run out of tinsel? What is your contingency plan?”
Me: “Well, I suppose we will have to live with less tinsel.”
PTA Nazi is stunned into codfish-like, slack jawed silence as she imagines the decades of therapy her children will require having been faced with a tinsel-deficient tree. Oh, the horror!
PTA Nazi: “If I were you and I were running the grotto, I would be decorating right now.”
Me: “Actually if you were me, you wouldn’t be so uptight, so I doubt it.” Ok – that part I just said in my head, but really wished I had the guts to say out loud.
Once the grotto was picture perfect by 12:30, the other 2 elves and I celebrated over a glass of mulled wine while we helped our reluctant hero plump with pillows and stuff his thick black hair into the white, curly wig. PTA Nazi stuck her head in fully expecting to be able to criticize. After taking a look around at the winter wonderland of rich, red fabrics, beautiful fairy lights, and garland that perfectly coordinated with the tree decorations, she was quiet. It was Pottery Barn Perfect, as I purchased all of these matching items on clearance after Christmas several years ago. “His eyebrows are black. I suppose no one thought to bring some white pencil to make him realistic,” she said turning on her heels to leave before any of us could chuck our cups of Christmas cheer in her face.
The realization that this Santa’s grotto is all about the parents became more of an epiphany as I enjoyed the perspective of an Elf watching these children being brought to visit Santa. As the other elves and I observed the behaviors of the 200+ children that came through the door we couldn’t help but notice something that should be obvious to everyone. Children are terrified of Santa Claus.
Parents were pushing and prodding their petrified children, “Just sit next to Santa for a picture.” If they didn’t scream in protest, it was only because they were perhaps only more frightened of their parents. The ones who came willingly only stepped forward because they had either already lost the magical belief in the miracle of reindeer flight, and/or were eager to tease and insult the man they recognized was not in fact Santa Claus but an imposter who earlier that day sat them in the time out spot on the playground for playing Star Wars Jedi’s vs. Transformers a bit too realistically.
“Why do you think these children are so scared of Santa?” my sister-elf asked while we were clearing up the afternoon with a second glass of mulled wine. “Do you think it’s the white hair and the loud voice booming, Ho, Ho, Ho that makes them apprehensive?”
Actually, I think grandparent figures are generally loved and perceived by children to be safe, and kind. But Santa is someone entirely different than grandpa. He's more like a scary Uncle.
As kids, many of us were taught to fear God because he would stand over us on judgment day and replay all of our sins on some sort of big screen TV for everyone to see. Obedience was extracted through fear. We may have rejected teaching the concept of God as a vengence-seeking overloard to our children, but still turn to Santa Claus to be the heavy when it comes to monitoring behavior. He’s the bad cop to our good cop. “It’s not me who won’t buy you that toy. It’s Santa who will bring you a lump of coal.” It’s next-to-impossible to promise both unconditional love and strict consequences for unwanted behavior. So we must hide behind an all-knowing, all-seeing entity that can provide equal and just rewards and consequences.
Take a moment to think about what you (or other parents if you are a member of the Practically Perfect Parents club and therefore unable to self-actualize) are saying to your children this time of year “You’d better watch out. Santa sees you misbehaving.” The words to the songs we sing are terrifying, “He sees you when you’re sleeping…he knows if you’ve been bad or good.” When these kids walk into Santa’s Grotto and he asks, “Have you been a good little girl/boy this year?” What can they say? They can’t blame the spill on their brother or say it was the other kid who started it. He KNOWS. Kids aren’t inherently good. That’s why they have parents and teachers and Ritalin. They sometimes have to be threatened and forced into good behavior, and this white bearded man in red is the guy who sees just exactly how bad they have been. It’s their day of reckoning.
Parents aren’t inherently good either. We’re just bigger children who are now in the position to buy our own toys. Our day of reckoning comes when our children reach their teens. You'd better watch out....You'd better not cry.....
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