You suck, Santa!! Seriously, what is wrong with you?
My wife hit me last night. Hard. Sucker punched really, for I was sound asleep. She used a book. Check that. She used a Bible. She said it was a spider and it was coming towards her. I asked her if it was coming towards her then how is was that she happened to hit me? She just smiled and rolled back over. I’ve got a bruise on my leg in the shape of a cross and I’m walking with a slight limp this morning. I suppose I should be thankful that the “spider” wasn’t crawling near my head–or worse.
That was around 2:30 am. About an hour later a seal woke me up. I curly headed seal, crying and feverish. Said she didn’t feel well. Maura took her downstairs for some medicine and returned a few minutes later to inform me that she feels better now, oh and she threw up all over the kitchen floor.
As I made my way down the hall this morning I passed two little raccoons standing at the bathroom sink, a futile effort being made at washing their hands. Futile, I say, because the cool water was impervious to the thick layer of Vaseline that covered both of their hands, the sink handles, the floor, the door knob and whatever else they had managed to touch on their way from their bedroom to the bathroom. Don’t even ask how the Vaseline got to their bedroom, I don’t know.
I’m cleaning the kitchen after breakfast, a generally disregarded feast of eggs, sausage, juice, fresh strawberries and pineapple. I pause for a moment to investigate the silence–trust me with five kids, you don’t worry about noise–to find my little super-hero in training balanced ever so precariously on a pillow with has been balanced ever so precariously on top of a chair pushed close to the mantle in the living room. Why these Walenda-esque feats of bravery? An attempt to gain access to the gingerbread house Zane made yesterday while visiting with a buddy after school. Seems she had plenty of room left in her tummy after not eating breakfast and that a gingerbread house would likely fill the void.
I had no sooner made my way back to the kitchen when I heard the unmistakable thud of children having pushed too far. The thud was immediately followed with tears. Crying. And blood. “We were just wrestling.” The problem with kids and blood is that they tend to freak and start wiping everywhere. It makes locating the source very difficult. I couldn’t tell if it was his nose, his chin, his tongue. Turns out it was just his lip. Nothing a little ice and a washcloth couldn’t fix.
It’s 10:30 am. The kids are still going generally berserk and I’ve got lights to string on a 12 foot Christmas tree. I’d rather be going to the dentist.
So why so upset with our good man Santa? Simple, life is filled with little opportunities to find a scapegoat and this freaking spreader of cheer has let me down. It’s on him today! I took the kids to see one of those drive through Christmas Light displays last night. You know, kind of like the safari trip where you stay in your car and drive through the simulated wilderness to observe animals in their natural habitat. Only this was Christmas Lights and we were driving through a state park listening to Christmas songs on the radio. The only wildlife was in the back seat of my car.
At the half-way point there is a little marina which was conveniently converted into a Santa’s workshop where you could get out of the car and visit the Dude in Red. We did. Our 10 minute visit with Sir Claus essentially comprised 2 minutes of “what do you want?” and “here’s your candy cane.” The remaining 8 minutes were spent waiting for the crappy picture to be printed, my kids huddled around me silent. Doubt filled their faces and surely they could see through my veiled enthusiasm.
There were no “Ho, ho, ho’s”, no jolly turns of phrases, and certainly no exhortations to be good little boys and girls. No warnings of “you better watch out” or “you certainly don’t want to end up on the naughty list”. Santa just sat there. Silent. Golden opportunity essentially flushed away. And this morning, my kids are as crazy as ever. I blame Santa because he didn’t tell them they had to be good.