Wedding Gift From Santa

(This post is for Marty Meehan. Thank you.)

1999. That was the year I wedged Santa Claus in between a gray military blanket and a stack of college textbooks marked "USED" on the top shelf of the living room closet in the first house we rented as newlyweds. It was December 26th, my husband's birthday, and he was working odd jobs after leaving a deplorable teaching position in Bedford Stuyvesant, NY. His salary was being held because of bureaucratic red tape. He could no longer wait to be paid and afford the commute. It was a dismal place to work, an overcrowded middle school where he taught English and gym on the fly in addition to social studies, (the area of his certification). He had no paper, no chalk and no experience. His scenic walk to the school from the train station included rotting dead cats in a gutter. (The idea that children have to live, and try to be educated, in such an environment is another story altogether.)

I wasn't really surprised when he came home from work one evening and told me he had quit. I was at the stove stirring noodles, and not at all shocked, but crying, nevertheless. Our rent was $800 a month back then, and I made $700 every two weeks working in a parochial school. We had student loans, combined single-life debt, utilities, you-name-it. It was beyond tight, and I was not used to sharing.

I took down my Christmas decorations the morning after the holiday, irritated by being financially pinched for the first time in my lucky little life. I got right into this paper mache Santa's face, whispering some expletives into his glue-encrusted ear plus: "There's no Santa, after all."

I could not believe it. ME, someone who LOVED CHRISTMAS, was suddenly "Scrooged" by a bad case of fear. I didn't know how long we could survive on my salary, and whatever temporary situation my husband got until a teaching position came along. He was working as an individual aid for a disabled boy in a local school district; he had no health insurance. He had to go to clinics for Veterans to receive prescriptions. Creditors were already starting to call us, since it was pretty inevitable that some of them had to wait to be paid.

Regardless of my faithless declaration, Santa's smug grin remained beneath the layers of blanket and books. I pulled his head out by the hat to check, twice, then push him into the pile until he was no longer visible. This falling out between Santa and I was not something I mentioned to anyone, but I hoped God saw it, because I was mad.

I'm what you might call an early bird. I did things on time before I had kids. I am dependable. The day my husband left his job was the first time I ever burned pasta. "How could you just quit like that?" You're married now!?" I said, exasperated by his fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants personality, a quality that, ironically, I used to think was so cool. Then the water boiled over.

Although I talked fresh to Santa, I still had hope that God would help us through those rocky first months of marriage. I bet God knew that if I really was done with Saint Nicholas, he would have ended up in the trash can. In the closet, beneath the pile of stuff, Santa kept smiling, but I didn't have to look.

One day before the new year, the closet shelf collapsed and the phone rang while I was cleaning up the mess. When my husband hung up, he had a full teaching position with health benefits, thanks to a wonderful friend. I was standing there with the blanket in one hand, and my rejected Saint Nick in the other. I looked down at the paper Santa, shocked by the generous belated Christmas gift. In light of this surprise blessing, he was placed in a spot of honor until Easter 2000.

Looking back to that Christmas now, I'm amazed by how blessed we are. Despite the current grim national economic situation, we own a home and can save each month for the first time ever. Every Christmas when I put that Saint Nicholas on the table, I think of the day I told him off, and secretly thank God for not giving up on us.

Potty-Hopping

I've always avoided public restrooms, because usually they're visibly dirty. I'll turn green before I use one, always waiting to get home. I drove through three states while pregnant and didn't use one. I guess the fear stems from an unhealthy over-awareness of germs. Having children has only made this phobia worse. Now that the princess is almost fully potty-trained, she's on a quest to visit all the public restrooms on the East Coast of the United States. As you can imagine, Reader, this is not good for me.

In the fast food restaurant, the princess tells several people on line about her Tinkerbell underpants. They act fascinated. After we eat, she immediately has to use the restroom. I bring her and her two brothers into the Women's Room, having to first convince big brother that it's okay to go in a door marked "Ladies" even though he isn't one.

Once inside, from the corner of my eye, I see myself doing a nervous, crazy dance in the mirror, shouting, "Don't touch the seat! Don't put your mouth on that dirty wall! GET UP OFF THE FLOOR NOW!" I have a toddler in one arm, I'm pulling up the princess' underpants with the other, and holding big brother against the wall with my "mommy glare." When we finally exit the restroom, princess is beaming and I'm exhausted. "That was FUN," she shouts.

We go through the same routine at Barnes & Noble, only this time she has broken the bookstore golden rule. She brings a book in the bathroom. "You read this to me, Mommy?" Princess shoves a paperback in my face as I sit her on the seat that I've meticulously covered with toilet paper. It's titled: Chimpanzee Politics: Power and Sex Among Apes. I put it down on the counter. "Let's save this one for when you're interning with Jane Goodall," I joke. Big brother and the baby laugh hard at my quip that they did not get. The baby drops my cell phone in the toilet just as the princess flushes. Without thinking, I stick my hand in the water to retrieve it. Then my brain realizes where my hand is and I scream. I think, "This is why I had kids, to be challenged."

"Once you become a mother you're the frame, not the picture." -Unknown

Survival of the Sweetest

Here is a picture of a disgustingly huge spider that built its web across the outside of my kitchen sliding glass doors last night. This morning, in a state of grogginess which typically causes me to pour orange juice in my cereal and return the milk to the cupboard, I forget about this horrific creature and attempt to put out the garbage by way of that entrance, walking right into the abandoned web. Hell Hound looks on, head tilted in a state of canine curiosity. Luckily, the spider has disappeared, probably having overheard my plans to destroy it with hair spray. Nevertheless, my screaming jig is inevitable, which I'm sure wakes all the neighbors, the live ones, anyway.

The dead ones are already up, I'm sure, since their landscapers were running weed wackers at 6 a.m. in the cemetery next door. "The dead neighbors are sooooo rude!" I complain to my husband at breakfast after having taken two showers. "Don't they care that I also like to rest in peace at 6 a.m. on Saturday?" Milk Man shrugs and crunches, sips his coffee, and rattles the newspaper. He's engulfed in the latest national crisis. Chris Russo is leaving the radio show, Mike and the Mad Dog on WFAN. I pull the paper down and lean into his face, asking "Will radio ever be the same?" He does not think my sarcasm is funny. "No, it probably won't," he mumbles, putting his coffee mug down and abruptly exiting the kitchen. I'm emptying the dishwasher and laughing. "Are you seriously upset about this?" No answer. "Wow, SO sensitive," I think aloud. "This is a dog-eat-dog kind of world, Milk Man, I guess Mad Dog had to move on." No answer.

Milk Man can be very sensitive at times, and so can I. This quality is definitely evident in the gene pool of our children, which troubles me as we approach their first days of school. They are very nice little people, and some kids can be cruel and aggressive. This is a fear that every mother must let go of, I suppose, as it is beyond the realm of control.

The princess enters the kitchen in her plastic shoes. "AHHHHH! I see the icky spider in the glass. Maybe smash it, Mama." Her older brother protests. "NOOO! Its brothers will be sad if you kill it. Mommy, just move it with my bug box."

Did I mention big brother LOVES bugs? He turns to the princess. "Just because something is ugly doesn't mean you should smash it." She thinks for a moment, then reluctantly agrees. After all, big brother knows everything.

My husband is standing in the doorway, smirking at me as I face my fears and relocate the giant spider in big brother's bug box. I think I'm breaking out into a sweat as we parade to the back of the yard with the creature, so it can safely find its "brothers," and avoid the jaws of Hell Hound.

I bet spiders teach their children the meaning of the phrase "Survival of the Fittest," but this bugger just got lucky today. It tacked itself to the door of two wonderfully sensitive children. I'll save one million ugly bugs if it means my kids stay this sweet forever.

Best Day Ever

Big brother is having what the Victorians called a crisscross day. That means he's in a generally bad mood. After watching an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants, he's been calling every day his "best day ever." Today, however, everything in his world is wrong. I tell him that when the day starts out badly, he should take a deep breath and start again. The Victorians would start again by saying, "Good Morning!" After my cheery lecture, Big Brother stares at me, expressionless. Then, he continues to whine an explanation of how his little day went south.

"It started out to be the best day of my life when I was about to play music in my room, but then the princess came in and started playing the drums and making a mess. Now it turned into my worst day ever!"

I follow him upstairs to capture the princess, but she's no longer in his room. In fact, after a few seconds of searching, I can't find her. I'm starting to panic, running from room to room calling her, upstairs, downstairs, then outside in the backyard. Where is she? The longest ten minutes of my entire life pass.

Then, suddenly, the princess reappears. She comes down the steps looking like a preschool version of a Hollywood pin-up from the 1940's, in plastic play heels, a bathing suit and white sunglasses. "Here comes Beach Princess," she announces. Apparently she changed while hiding from me inside baby brother's bedroom closet. I lose my patience.

"Why did you ignore me when I was calling you?! You made Mommy get really scared!" I hear myself shouting, but I can't help it. The princess looks down at her feet. "Sorry Mama. I was just playing hide-n-seek," she mutters. I let out a sigh, exasperated, and head toward the bathroom medicine cabinet to take a Tylenol. I suddenly have a headache. Big brother follows me, talking.

"Well Mama, it sounds like this started to be your best day ever, until the princess hid in baby brother's closet. Everybody is afraid of something, and everybody has crisscross days. You're afraid of losing the princess, I'm afraid of shots from the doctor, the princess is scared of monsters or bugs, and daddy is afraid the Yankees will lose. When tomorrow starts over, maybe that can be our best day ever!"

I stare at him, expressionless, wishing for patience. It's time to take my own advice. Giving him a kiss, I say, "Good Morning!"

Meet Little Loren

As a little girl, I am afraid of the dark. I'm one of those kids who doesn't like to go to bed at night, to my parents' dismay. As soon as the nightlight goes on I cry for mommy, only stopping to listen intently to my parents verbal struggle over what to do about me. If the verdict is to ignore me, then I resume crying, louder. I do this because I'm sure monsters live in my pillow. They have shaggy orange fur, (it's the '70's). I can't let my arm or foot dangle over the side of the bed, even on the hottest summer nights, because an "ugly breen witch" waits to grab me from beneath it! An open window is a bad idea, a gargoyle could climb through it and take me to his cave where his blue brothers will roast me. I dare not look at the open closet door; the ghost hiding in my hanging clothes might see that I am still awake.

On the whole, night time is bad and scary for little Loren. Besides, I'm not tired. Sometimes, after a nightmare, I stay frozen in my bed, the covers up to my eyes, until I can muster enough courage up to run into my parents' room and climb into bed with them. After a few minutes there, I'm ready to face the horrors of my own bedroom again. Sleeping next to dad is not comfortable. His big body cooks me, and his snore is louder that any imagined creature that might visit me in the darkness just beyond my own bed covers. Like a soldier running through open gunfire, I scamper back to my own bed and jump under the covers. As I start to feel sleepy, I ask my little self: How could mom sleep next to such a loud, sweaty person?