Don't Stop Believing

You would think that 9-10 months into this pandemic, I would be better at handling uncertainties. Because we sure have been hit with some real doozies this year. But, as we wind up the year everyone hopes to forget Men In Black style, the Sanderson family has faced its biggest uncertainty to date...

Are we continuing with the Santa charade?

Because we do not know. 

And yes, Bee is 11 and that is a weird, limbo Santa age. When I discuss it with people, it is either met with "Wow, she still believes?" (slight groan or sympathetic shoulder pat)  or "Of course she still believes! She is only 11!"

So, in keeping with our best parenting strategies, JD and I are choosing to just ignore this situation. Fully. Non-commital either way. Rolling the dice. Flying-by-the-seat-of-our-pants. Sparing or ruining childhood. We just don't know. 

What I do know is that I was around 12 before I even suspected anything was nefarious with Santa. And that, is too old. If you are riding a middle school bus, you should be learning swear words and salacious gossip. Not believing in Santa.  

The last year of believing, my sixth grade year (yes, sixth) was a pivotal year for me. 

We had moved to Louisville with 2-months to go in 5th grade. A whole country/city mouse ordeal, we were in the BIG city now and clearly, I had a lot to learn. And  the majority of my social learning was done on Bus 325. Just a real wealth of culture and trends. Like robots, every girl got on and off that bus wearing the latest and greatest of everything I would also need to be cool. It was like a Seventeen Magazine come to life. 

This year in particular, as I was starting middle school, I became keenly aware that I was as far from cool as one could possibly be. I mean, to learn that you could get jeans someplace other than a JC Penny catalog was Earth shattering. And that that place was called The Gap? And they also were doing a lot of work with a chunky knit that year? From there, it went into a real Limited, Express, County Seat spiral and it is a wonder I made it out alive. 

Clothes were one thing, but if I had learned anything from my bus research, there were two items I was going to immediately need to procure if I was going to even BEGIN to think about being cool:

1. A chocolate brown, G-3 leather jacket with map print inside. 

2. An LL Bean backpack complete with my monogram and highly reflective striping. 

And I knew just the guy to see about these things. 

Now, again, I am a month into my twelfth year of life and I would venture to guess a psychologist would assign me the maturity of a 9-year-old. To quote the poet laureate, Britney Spears, I was not a girl, not yet a woman. In the most sincere sense. That bus, where I was frantically researching what the cool, older girls were into, was also a vessel to get me home to play Barbies every day after school. Those same cool girls with their awesome purses (a purse, at school?!?!) and highlighted hair had no idea that I was saving my babysitting money to buy  a Mickey Mouse watch I had seen at The Disney Store. Caught dead center in the middle, I had no idea who I was or wanted to be. But, I knew I had to have the above mentioned items and I knew Santa would come through. 

Until I asked my Mom about going to see him. 

"Really? Santa?" She balked. 

Um, yes. Like at the Mall. I could have played it old school and written a letter, but with this gift needing a size and monogram, I figured it was better to discuss it with him in person. 

What I now recognize as an attempt by my parents to be like, "Katie, sweetie. Come on. The jig is up." was what I perceived at the time to be an act of child abuse. I was persistent, I was obnoxious and I was certain I would find myself at the mall soon. It was the holidays after all and much shopping would have to be done. 

Also, my brother was 7 at this time. I really could have just held out to ride those Santa coattails. 

It was a weekend night and after quickly throwing some Sbarro down my gullet in the food court, I was standing in line with my brother to see the big man, the mall Santa. When it was our turn, my brother went on and on about some video game and when Santa looked at me, I was fearing our time was running out, so I quickly told him the two things I needed most and shouted my monogram to not only Santa, but the girl working the Santa picture stand. Why hadn't I written it down? 

And then it was Christmas morning. And with the calm and self assuredness of a toddler about to go off the high dive, I ran downstairs. 

To nothing.

Now before you start crowdsourcing funds for my therapy, let us remember that I am in MIDDLE SCHOOL at this point. Four years away from being able to legally drive a motor vehicle in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. I would go to COLLEGE six-years later. I was closer to voting in local and national elections than I EVER should have been to believing in Santa Claus. 

But I had. I had put every ounce of trust I had built in 12-years of life into the logic that a middle-age man in a Juicy Couture red track suit with (probably) early onset diabetes and a FLEET of reindeer would bring me these gifts.  Willingly believed. Never second guessing the logistics or even just the sheer physics of it all. I believed in Santa and I believed he would bring me a monogrammed backpack and leather jacket. Full stop. 

Shattered, I skulked to my "present unwrapping spot" in our living room and tried to put on a brave face. You know, for the family. I was handed packages and began to unwrap the most bipolar assortment of gifts you can imagine. Seriously, it was like a Mad Lib shopping for me that year. Some earrings from Gantos and some Barbies to add to my collection. But then, just like a Hallmark movie that still has yet to be made about a girl that is too old, but still believes in Santa, my Mom handed me two more packages. If the suspense hasn't killed you yet, it was obviously the jacket and the backpack. With perfect monogram. 

And in that moment, I knew Santa wasn't real. (Finally)

Santa never wrapped his gifts to us. Wrapped gifts were only from Mom and Dad. Thereby, Santa had had nothing to do with my G-3 and my Royal Blue monogrammed backpack. It was all my parents. Actually, it was all my Mom. Because my Dad said "Why did she want a bomber jacket?" 

In years since then, I have asked my Mom about this specific Christmas. She freely admitted that she knew I still believed and she couldn't bring herself to tell me that in fact, Santa was fake. And she was worried about my brother finding out and ruing his Christmas magic, too. She told me she wanted me to get what I asked for so that I wouldn't be confused or upset about the whole Santa ordeal. In her most caring tone, she explained that she completely understood the need to have the cool items for the bus. 

But she told me, mostly, she wanted the credit for making me so happy. 

Which I get. Because let's be honest, that velour Wilfred Brimley is getting a lot of credit he doesn't deserve. 

So, thinking back to that year, I am conflicted. If there is magic still there, I don't want to crush that outright. And thank you, I know there is a letter I can get on Pinterest that will let her down easy if, in fact, she still believes. But this year has SUCKED on all levels. And I am not emotionally mature enough to handle Santa cancel culture at the Sanderson house. 

Frankly, if COVID has been good for anything, it has offered a lot of opportunities to lie and/or massage the truth about that FREAKING elf and Santa probably having to quarantine. Especially in London with that super-mutation of the virus. Quarantines and antibodies aside, I am ok just ignoring the Santa Summit this year and, like with COVID, just hoping my life is back to normal by next Christmas. 

Could something be more on brand than for COVID Christmas to be the year she stopped believing? But if we keep just going on in this passive-aggressive way of ostriching around the Santa discussion, I am okay with that too. For now. 

That's not true. 

I also want the credit for the gifts we are buying, so we will have to talk about it at some point. 

But this year is not it. 

In all seriousness, I wish you all the merriest of Christmas'. Thank you for gifting me by reading this blog! 

I hope Santa brings you everything your heart desires! 

Christmas Hole-aday

This time of year, I am always speaking in slogans, jingles and popular catchphrases. 

But the truth is, I don't care who went to Jared. I don't care if your kiss began at Kay or the state fair.  Target wants me to "Expect More?" Its 2020, Target. I did. And if I hear one more person say "Y'all can't be doing that," I am going to be numbers 1-1,000 on the Naughty List. 

Right behind the Trump Administration. 

Frankly, the only slogan, jingle or catchphrase  I care about this holiday season (other than the obvious "Unto You a Child is Born" and "Hark the Herald Angels Sing", et al) is:

Free 2-day shipping for Prime Members. 

This blog lacks even the very basic ability to discuss the lines between consumerism and savior conception, so please know that I understand the true meaning of Christmas and hope you do too. But if we are being honest, there is still a required level of shopping that accompanies the most miraculous event in the history of the universe. 

And shopping for families needs to be easy. Especially this year. 

I have always had a very small family. My Dad is an only child and my Mom had one sister. I have one brother and only 3 first cousins. Throw in the odd great aunt or uncle and we barely ever had enough for a sports ball team. 

Somehow by default, election or as a punishment,  my Mother became "Christmas Gift Buyer At Large" at some point early in her adult life.  This came with absolutely no pomp or paycheck, but all the responsibilities of a creating a magical Christmas. 

Which sucks on a million levels, but mostly,  in the early 1980's, (the height of her reign) my entire family was living in Western Kentucky, all of us hours from a *major* city like Owensboro or Bowling Green. Which was where the malls and the Wal-Marts were located. If Target existed, it must have only been in New York City.  We had the odd "boutique" that was open from 1-1:30 every 5th Thursday and the ever popular Tractor Supply. 

What we lacked in metropolitan shopping, we made up for in mail-order catalogs. 

Because of her job as Supreme Gift Buyer, my Mom started hoarding the catalogs as soon as they arrived. No sooner could my brother and I smell all 9,000 pages of the JC Penny Christmas catalog or get a glimpse of the Service Merchandise holiday spectacular, they would be ripped from our hands and put on her desk with strict instructions to never look at, speak of or even considering moving any of these hallowed documents. It was like we were entrusted with the Declaration of Independence from November-December 25th each year. And failure to comply with her statutes was a punishment worse than grounding. She was on a buying mission for every member of our family: to and from. 

My paternal grandmother would always start right after your first bite of turkey..."Well, what do you think Sanny Claus ought to bring you this year?" My maternal grandmother was a little more leading... "Don't you think your baby dolls need a stroller? I think they do. If I see Santa, I will ask him to bring you a dolly stroller." And what I know now, as an adult, is that my Mother spent the better part of 6-8 weeks specializing in Scotland Yard style Christmas intelligence. She would listen-in on conversations, note-take on trends and pick-up all the dropped hints. 

Without a single Apple product. 

Or even a voice note. She wrote lists in her perfect teacher penmanship. Lists on lists on lists. She looked like Santa. (Or me, present day, trying to construct a Click-List that is digital, but still requires scratch paper.)

She would collect all of her surveillance and prepare a dossier for each member of the family. Some information was shared; grandmothers and my aunt, mostly, but the rest was classified for Santa. At the root of it all, my Mother curated, purchased, transported, wrapped and displayed Christmas for almost everyone in our family. She bought for us on their behalf, but she also bought for them. Perfect gifts; gifts you didn't even know you needed! Life changing gifts given by my Mom at Christmas. And again, not a big family. 

Each year, she would haul perfect gifts all over hell and half of Georgia for our family. To me and my brother from each grandparent, aunt, uncle, cousin, dog and partridge in a pear tree. And as they watched us open them in sheer glee, everyone would hand her a check for all her hard work.  Not as payment. Reimbursement. I am sure actual North Pole elves made more than she did on toy deals. I think the elves are unionized, so surely.

As I look back on this, which is really more often than I ever imagined it would be, I am fascinated by the undertaking. Not just the volume of gifts and the coordination, but the fact that she was working solely using catalogs and home phones. Seriously. Like doing algebra on an abacus. (I assume that joke works? Math is hard.)

She would have our incredibly long phone cord all over the house talking to varied Customer Service representatives; spouting off memorized credit card numbers and 50-digit alphanumeric order numbers. She was thorough and early. My Mother never waited to the last minute to buy a single gift. She had more financial transactions and invoices scribbled on paper than Bernie Madoff, although she kept better records,  and she turned her bedroom into what Bezos probably modeled his warehouses off of. 

It was awful, but it worked. 

Until it didn't. 

One year, let's call it 1986, Kringle crapped the bed. 

This many years out, I remember it like it was yesterday. I was home that morning because I went to PM kindergarten. (Half day kindergarten is what I attribute to my terrible ACT scores ...) Playing Barbies, the phone rang and my Mother answered. Some pleasantries were exchanged and then screeches that sounded like death more than "tales of the glory of Christmas' long, long ago." My Mother was shouting things I had never heard her shout and I was confused and concerned for her place on Santa's list.  She slammed down the phone, the HOUSE phone which is arguably the most satisfying slam of all time. I was in the kitchen with her when she turned, looked at me and stormed off into the hall. She stopped. Looked back at the phone, screamed out loud again. 

And then kicked a hole in the wall. 

A full, reindeer size kick into 1/2" drywall. 

And in case I didn't mention it before, we rented this house. 

While the drywall dust was clearing, she was crying. 

Obviously.

The physical pain alone had to be insurmountable, but I know the emotional toll was just as bad. 

I was young and my brother was even younger, so we were no help. We both just sort of sat, staring into the hole. I remember vividly thinking "Wow. That is one tough lady."  

That and, 

Will my Dad kill her?

Will she get a cast on her kicking foot?

Will we be on the news? 

Will we be on the naughty list?

Will we have to live with a neighbor?

Will that neighbor have ice-cream or other Christmas snacks?

Would my Mom kick another hole in the wall if I asked for a snack now? 

(To this day,  most of my worry morphs into food-based worry.)

I didn't go to PM kindergarten that day. Instead, I spent most of the day worried what my Dad and Santa (in that exact order) were going to think of this elf size hole my Mother had kicked in the wall of our rental house. What felt like twelve days of Christmas later, my Dad came home and was getting his first look at my Mom's Christmas remodel. 

Thankfully, I wasn't privy to the events and discussions that followed. In the coming days, I just remember the hole being a reminder that my Mom was a BAD Mother. If nothing else, it served as a cautionary tale for me and my brother; yes, Santa sees you when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake, bad or good... blah blah goodness sake. 

But my Mom went Christmas Crazy and kicked a hole in the wall.  

Kringle ain't got nothing on Sue. 

It became a joke in the family even that year and since. Turns out, the whole debacle was over a coat she had ordered to give my Uncle. The company called to say it was on backorder and it was the tinsel that broke the camel's back. When I was older and could fully understand, she told me more horror stories about trying to shop for and make an entire family's Sugarplum dreams come true with only mail-order catalogs and a home phone. So many stories, it sounded more like Halloween than Christmas. 

Frankly, I'd say we all got off easy with her "only" kicking a hole in the wall. 

As a result, my Mom isn't too keen on Christmas. And I have always been cognizant of not making that my life or passing that on to my kiddo. So far, so good. Except for 5 or 6-years-ago when someone in my husband's family asked what to get Bee for Christmas. I gave some ideas and they said "Great. Why don't you pick it up and I will pay you for it.."

"No. I'm not going to do that..." 

I said as I stared at the stucco wall of our rented house in Phoenix wondering if that day was the day I would one up or usurp my Mother as the actual nightmare before Christmas. 

Since the hole in the wall, she's not had another physical altercation at Christmas. I am sure there were plenty of emotional breakdowns. Probably when we moved to Wyoming. Even with the Internet, Wyoming is still like trying to get presents on the Moon. If there is a Christmas Hall of Fame, I nominate my Mom. She made it super magical and a little bit scary for us always. 

I do refuse to ever let her forget that day. It marked me so much I wrote a blog about it. But what is she going to do, get mad at me and kick a hole in the wall? 

Y'all can't be doing that.