When our kids were still visiting Santa I tried to manage their requests.
Santa: “What can I bring for you this year, buddy?”
My cute kid: “Abba babba doodie,” or something. It’s hard to hear crouched behind Santa’s broad back – the best position from which to provide necessary coaching.
Me (sotto voce): “Matchbox cars and Star Wars Legos, Santa. MATCHBOX CARS, STAR WARS … and, and books, lots of BOOKS.”
Each year, the first week of December drops a giant pile of guilt square in my lap. My Facebook news feed fills up with all of my other parent friends posting pictures of all of the creative and often naughty things that their elf (or elves) have done the night before.
I was worn down by the minutia of mothering. The days were consumed with relentless chores that keep the machine of a home life humming: changing the kitty litter, filling the gas tank, sweeping the floors, folding the towels and vacuuming the same carpet over and over. No amount of effort seemed to brighten the dullness of endless routine. READ MORE