Central Valley Moms

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Santa
Dec4th2011

How I Ruined Christmas

I’ve always comforted myself with the impression that I am an excellent mother. Sometimes I slip up but, most of the times,  I’m right on the money – spot-on, Cracker Jack, all-that-and-a-bag-o’-chips.  Perhaps my most shining moment was the year I ruined Christmas.

My son Max was a brilliant 8-year-old.  He was known in the neighborhood as little Jimmy Neutron, The Brainiac etc.  Max would change the spark plugs in the car and build Lego towers that passed code.

Max, however, was the spoiler.   When the boys on the school playground were having a discussion, with glaring inaccuracies, about where babies come from,  I got a call from the school.  Max straightened them all out.  He was complete and correct and soon parents were calling.  I wiggled out of that mess by citing freedom of Speech, the Freedom Of Information Act, the Louisiana Purchase and redirecting the conversation to the school lunch program.

Enter Max’s  4-year-old sister, Morgan.  Bright and imaginative, she  baked imaginary cookies, talked to animals and had this strange ability to chew off her own toenails. She was ripe for the picking. She would give us all “tickets” to Disneyland that Max was all too happy to inform her were only bits of ripped-up paper.  Max liked to spike drinks with heavy doses of salt and offer them to his thirsty and grateful little sister.  I think he still does it.  He’s 21 now.
It was nearing Christmas, and I don’t remember exactly the circumstances.  It was just another one of those moments where Max was spouting off and making his sister look silly in front of his friends.   He was sitting on his bike in the driveway and acting smarter-than-alls-y’all  with his bleached-blond, spiked hair.  I just felt trouble looming, and I was gonna stop it.  Remember, I’m an excellent mother.

“Max,” I said, “Let’s have a little talk.”  His impish smile turned sweet and innocent and something told me I should have stopped right there, but I didn’t.

“What, Mommy?” he asked.

“I don’t want you to ruin Christmas for your sister.”

“What do you mean?”  His face turned serious.

“You know.”  (Stop, woman.)

“No.” (Puzzled.)

“Don’t play with me. Yes, you do.” (Really, woman. Just stop)

“Mom, I really don’t know what you mean.  Have I been bad?”

“No, honey.  I just don’t want you to ruin Christmas for Morgan.  She’s still a baby, and I know you always like to show off, tell her everything and make her feel stupid.”

“Mom, I really don’t understand what you are saying.” (Stop!  Retreat! Stop! Let it be!)

“Don’t tell her there is NO SUCH THING AS SANTA!”   (Deafening silence.)

His little eyes popped wide open and he looked straight up at me.  He was an 8-year-old little boy again, and I was the Christmas witch.

“There’s no such thing as Santa?” He looked down in disappointment.

“Oh honey.”

In the middle of my explanation, he suddenly looked up again.  “What about the Easter Bunny?”

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  1. Oh. You. Didn’t! BAD Mommy, LOL!

    • DMcG

Author

  • Annie Plowman
  • Working mother of 2. One left to graduate high school, one in college and working. Everyone's on the move. Passions are garden design, music, cooking, family and friends. I love being a mom!