Confessions Of A Santa Clause

Dear Conner,

Your mother and father just failed hardcore.

We decided that on a late Sunday evening, we'd haul you and your brother to the "Red Ball Store" sometimes known to you as "Target" (but mostly the former). Honestly? We only came for diapers, the fruit snacks you and Chase prefer, milk and apparently... Fall Out 3 (ask your father about that one).

But we failed you, or more so... Christmas... and Santa. See... it is Christmas time. Ok. Really it's about 3 weeks prior to Thanksgiving, but kid.. times are tough and that means stores are ramming Christmas down our throats 2 months early because we, as Americans, feel the urge to SPEND LIKE MANIACS. I digress.

Our first major failure was even steering towards the toy section. However, Fall Out 3 is located in the game area and that is right smack next to the toy section. And since it was on our NEED list *aghem*, we had to go that direction.

I found 2 games for your Leapster HALF! OFF! One was a Dinosaur counting game and the other the Star Wars reading game you've been requesting from St. Nick.

You didn't see it, but I put them in the cart. We finished our shopping and checked out without you noticing the presents.

Then we got to the car. Out of the bag fell BOTH games. You were thrilled.

In panic mode, we shoved them back into the bags and you kept rambling about them. So, once buckeled into the car, I ripped the cartridge out of the packaging.

Your dad and I started the cover-up.

"Conner, Santa has a small sleigh and it can fly, so it needs to lightweight. Santa told us to go get the package and he'd bring the game to make room for more toys for you, Chase and other boys and girls. Does that make sense?"

That might sound familiar. You bought it, but insisted "I am going to look inside when we get home."

And you did. And you found nothing but an empty package.

So we are sorry for screwing up and for lying about it. We aren't very good at this whole 'Santa Thing' yet.

Lots of Love,
Mom and Dad

My Top 3 Gross Things You Might Have Never Thought About But I'll Ruin. Except Santa. He's Been Ruined Forever.

And today: I'm feeding your OCD with my top 3 "Most Likely Absolutely Disgusting Things That You've Totally Never Thought About But Will Now Attempt to Sanitize". See? This is why I don't have a job writing titles for magazine articles.

Number 3: Santa
That's right. He's been whoring around small, disease-riddled varmint for two weeks by the time you drag your precious cargo bedazzled in their least hideous concoction of puke green and red plaid to the lap of this jolly-old soul.

Little do you think, before plopping your kids into his lap, just where that lap has been.
Gah-ross.

That kid you saw picking his nose and eating it about 10 kids in front of you? Same lap. Same white gloves. Same beard. Germs still a lingerin'.

The little girl that was there yesterday with her siblings who was, only hours prior, developing a mild cough that is now at home with full-blown AIDS swine flu? Yeah. She totally sneezed on her sleeve before hugging Saint Nick.

And now? You are sitting your children into one big pile of Awesomely Nasty Things.
Good job.

Number 2: Your credit cards.
Every time I am out on errands, I touch and touch and touch and touch and touch and touch and touch (I do a lot of touching) some more and then, the culmination of all the germs I've collected land in ONE place: my method of payment.

And then? I swipe it through the same place that all the people BEFORE me's culminated germs landed as well.
Freakin' great.

Think about this some more: the pharmacy.
That's where I go to get my prescriptions when I am dieing sick, and even when I spare the world my excessive germs by using the drive-thru service, what one item gets passed from my sick bubble to the store and back into my bubble?
The credit card (I use my own pen, pleaseandthankyou).

Wipe yours off with clorox wipes! EWWW!

Number 1: Birthday Cake

Ooh. That's right.

This occurred to me last year? I think?

For your consideration:
Conner was ALWAYS "sick", like always. We couldn't plan anything without being fully aware that the odds of us lugging a congested or snotty child around were pretty high (which meant we didn't do anything, not that we chose to expose the general population to his germy germs - DO THE SAME FOR ME).

But birthdays? Well... we just ranked how "sick" Conner was and decided that his occasional cough, lethargy and stuffy nose were just "ok" to be around since he was NOT contagious.

Fast forward: Candle Blowing and Song Time.
The cake.
One deep breath in from my soon-to-be 3-year-old AND the exhale - wooooooooooooosh - fire out.

Now, the cake has been SPRINKLED with my son's germs.

Who wants a corner piece?

Hey Fat Man, BUTT OUT!

This weekend, the Hubby relieved me of The Mom Job for a WHOLE hour so that I could escape to Target. I shopped under a pseudonym and most wouldn't recognize me in a big red suit, a long white beard and black boots. I also had the laugh down to an art.

I only spent an hour and some change sifting through all the toys and gadgets that the boys have absolutely no room for and will probably break in a week. I managed to get out under $200 too! But I couldn't help but wonder... why do the grandparents get credit for their gifts... the aunts and uncles ....and cousins and friends ...and teachers and neighbors... they all get to say "here you go kid, look what i got just for you!"

But when it comes down to the man who goes to work every day to pay for these peices of garbage lovely gifts and the woman who carried these children for 2 separate 10 month gestations, dealt with the agonizing heartburn, the sleepless nights, the swollen feet, then birthed them through a hole the size of .. well... you know an approximation of how big it is. Tack on the crying when things went wrong or when one particular child decided to stop breathing and seize and all (no blame, Chase, no blame) and then when that woman spent weeks bleeding her insides out, cramping away, nursing and cracking and becoming engorged... and all THOSE extra sleepless nights till they are... well.. 20-something that are sure to come... why is it that THAT person (or persons) has to throw away all the "Aww... baby... ALL THIS STUFF IS FOR YOU! FROM ME!" on some hocus pocus mumbo jumbo imaginary fat dude that broke in without setting off the alarm mom and dad promised would help protect you?

I know, I know. "It's not about the presents.. but the MAGIC and their faces... and who CARES about who the gifts came from when they are HAPPY and SURPRISED and loved..." BLAH. BLAH BLAH.

BAH HUMBUG!

I don't know how long these Pixie and Fairy dust years of Santa will last because I did NOT fight Saturday mid-Holiday Target Crazies for Conner to say "Momma! Look what SANTA got ME!"