Christmas lists can be rather telling, don’t ya think?

Confession: Last December, I had to seek counseling over my son’s Christmas list. Yes, my friends, a letter written by a seven year old beginning with the words “Dear Santa” sent me to therapy.

Let me explain.

I am a bubble mom. Hey, I’m a control freak and control freaks like to keep their kids in
bubbles . . . teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy, small ones. I discovered not long after becoming a mother that I had very clear visions regarding what I did and did not want to expose my children to, and there were a LOT of things on the “no” list.

To give you an example of how hard-core my list was, I will admit to nursing Charlie while watching HGTV on mute. Why was the TV on mute, you ask?  Because I couldn’t stand the thought of exposing my newborn baby to anything that might be even the slightest bit negative, and they might use such appalling words as “hate” or “sexy” on HGTV.  (They do, you know, which is why I still don’t allow my kids to watch Divine Design, even though I think Candice Olsen hung the moon, and when I win the lottery and feed as many starving kids as possible, I will then hire her to redecorate my entire life.)

I’m still terrified of the television when it comes to my children. Now that Charlie is older, he wants to watch sporting events with his daddy. Sure, golf is fairly clean, but I have to make sure Adam is armed with the remote control ready to change the channel as soon as any commercials come on. I simply don’t have the inclination to explain why half-naked women show up on all beer commercials and I definitely don’t want to explain what Viagra is all about.

Movies make me nervous too. Although there are guidelines for determining the rating of movies, I’m not so sure they make sense. We even stayed away from the G rated Disney movies until last January, when it snowed so much the kids were out of school for a week and we finally tired of sledding down our driveway. I know they’re classics, but again, the language isn’t always appropriate and the themes irritate me. I mean seriously, what did Walt Disney have against mothers anyway?

Music is yet another issue for bubble moms like myself. There is nothing great out there for school age children. My kids loved Bible songs and the baby and toddler CD’s when they were young, but once they started school, they outgrew “The Wheels on the Bus,” and there just isn’t a next step. I love music with a great beat as much as the next girl, but I don’t need The Black-Eyed Peas on my five-year-old's play list.

My extreme sheltering extends beyond television, movies, and music. Until last Christmas, we didn’t have any toys with weapons in our house. In fact, I never used the word ‘gun’ in front of my children, along with many other words like ‘kill’, ‘die’, or ‘dead.’ I realize my kids will one day learn our world has the potential to be a violent place, but I wanted to put that day off for as long as possible. So, for years, when my daughter saw a beetle on the ground that wasn’t moving, I told her it was simply taking a little snooze on the sidewalk. And when well-meaning family members bought Star Wars Lego sets for my son because they thought I was going overboard with my desire to protect my children’s innocence, I confiscated the weapons in the blink of an eye and threw them immediately into the trash.

Like I said . . . hard-core. I formed a bubble around my children and tired to keep it intact for many years. Of course, every bubble pops eventually, and the one I created around Charlie and Libby finally did. In fact, it probably popped years earlier, but I was too busy making sure my kids still thought the ‘F’ word had to do with releasing bodily gas to realize it. When I saw Charlie’s Christmas list last December, however, I knew my bubble had burst.

My seven-year-old son asked Santa Claus to bring him a Nerf gun, a bow and arrow, and a pocketknife for Christmas.

Every single item on his list was a weapon.
Well, this bubble mom panicked. I called the counselor at Charlie's school and requested an emergency meeting while visions of sociopaths danced in my head.

The amazing school counselor reassured me that my son was not on his way to becoming a dangerous criminal. He was just a little boy who wanted to play like a little boy with toys made specifically for, yep, you got it . . . little boys. It made sense when a trained professional explained it that way, so I went with it, and after my counseling session, Santa delivered in a BIG way. He brought Charlie a nerf gun and a bow and arrow for Christmas. TWO weapons. Of course, in typical fashion, Charlie rarely plays with either of them, but they sit in his closet, reminding me that there is no way I will always be able to protect my children. They will hear things I don’t want them to hear. They will see things I don’t want them to see. They will learn things I don’t want them to learn. All I can do is try to keep the lines of communication open and pray for God’s protection over my children. And I have to trust that the bubble I had around Charlie and Libby for so many years gave them just enough sheltering to allow them to go out into the world and find the good in it.

This year, Charlie’s Christmas list looks like this:
1. Play Station
2. Backpack (it doesn’t matter which color)
3. Another Nerf Gun
4. Surprises!!!

Number two is my favorite. Only a male could be that agreeable. Man, I love that kid. And I'm so glad I won't need any therapy this year.

Merry Christmas my friends! May God richly bless you this holiday weekend and always!

I’ve lied to my children. I would love to meet a mother who hasn’t, but still, it’s tough to teach the value of honesty when you’ve looked your kid in the eyes and told him that, yes indeed, a pacifier fairy really did fly through his window in the middle of the night because she knew he was ready to go to sleep without his favorite security item. Lying to my child in order to force him to take a developmental leap I deemed necessary probably isn't quality parenting.

There have been plenty of little lies throughout the years as well.

“No, honey, we can’t go to the ice skating rink because, ummmm, it’s closed today.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, we can’t buy that new toy because I only brought enough money to the store to buy the other thirty things in our shopping cart."

"Why yes, love, I do think you look beautiful with six bows in your hair and pink lipstick smeared all over your face.”

I justify the inaccurate statements I make to my children in the hopes of building their self-confidence, or protecting them, or letting them down easily, or getting out of a public place without causing an embarrassing meltdown, or . . . or maybe just because I’m too chicken to deal with the ramifications my honesty might bring. I want my children to understand what it means to have restraint, but I don’t always know how to handle their reaction when I deny the instant gratification they crave. I want them to know they don’t have to go somewhere special to have a great time, but I struggle to find pleasure in the ordinary myself some days. I want my kids to be able to find the magic of life, but I’m not sure how much of it I should create for them and when to let reality settle in.

There have been bigger deceptions in my almost nine year stint as a mother as well. Like most American children, I loved the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus when I was a child, and I’ve enjoyed passing down their unique traditions to my own son and daughter. But as Christmas approaches this year and my children are now eight and six, I'm beginning to wonder, at what point do I put a stop to the sham? I received gifts from “Santa” on Christmas morning when I was a college student and thought it was great fun. Still, do I want to continue in this manner with my own kids?

I’ve received all kinds of advice on how to handle the beginning of the end; the moment when your child begins to realize you have tricked him into playing along with a con involving a large bearded man sliding down a chimney while his eight flying reindeer wait on the roof. ?????

Some suggest it’s best to use the old ‘you gotta believe to receive’ adage. I like that one. It doesn’t spill the beans, but it doesn’t come right out and deliver a blatant lie either.

Some people turn the question around when they begin to notice a child having the doubts of a non-believer. “Well honey, who do you think puts the presents under the tree on Christmas Eve?” I like that one too. It encourages critical thinking without incorporating any admission of dishonesty on the part of the parent.

Many people can tell you about the exact moment they learned Santa Claus wasn't real, and some claim is was a devastating event in their lives. I think I suspected long before I truly knew, but either way, I don't remember being significantly upset when I became certain my parents were the ones delivering gifts on Christmas Eve. I think it didn't matter because, regardless of who was doing the actual delivering, I was thrilled to wake up on Christmas day and find packages under the tree with my name on them. Santa or no Santa, I bubbled over with excitement every Christmas Eve, rushing downstairs before the sun came up each Christmas morning. It was ALWAYS my favorite day of the year.

My son is very logical. I could see his wheels turning even before he started kindergarten when his dad and I would tell him about Santa and sleighs and chimneys. He just wasn't buying it. He had lots of questions. Good ones. And I found it tough to come up with explanations that satisfied his skepticism.

After a couple years, Charlie's questions about Santa Claus stopped. Some of my friends think my son decided to believe in Santa despite his doubts. Honestly, I think he just decided to go along with the idea of Santa because his parents weren't leaving him any other choice. I think Charlie knows his dad and I are the ones leaving presents for him and his sister on Christmas Day, and frankly, I'm okay with that. In fact, part of me wants to come right out and confirm his suspicions. Then we can let him get in on the fun of being on the other side of the charade.

I think the reason I'm not distressed about my son's status as a Santa believer has to do with the fact that I have some real concerns about the deceptions we feed our children in the name of good holiday fun. I have concerns that there is real potential for the magical characters of childhood to weaken the case of God.

Whoa. Now that’s serious. You didn't think I was going that deep, did you? Neither did I, but hey, it's good to get out of the shallow end every once in a while, don't you think?

I know it sounds a little nuts, but stick with me for a minute.

Is it possible we're setting our kids up to question the existence of God by putting money under their pillows every time they lose a tooth?

If you think about it, children are likely to put God in the same realm as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. In fact, they might even place God somewhere below such fictional characters, because they can actually sit on Santa’s lap every year. They can talk to him at the mall and receive letters from him in the mail and see the evidence of his existence when they open their eyes to a room full of new goodies every Christmas morning.

What about God? He's not hanging around handing out candy canes in parking lots every December.

We try to explain God's important characteristics to our children with examples, both verbal and physical. We read books about God, tell Bible stories about Him, listen to songs about Him, and pray to Him. Yet, in many homes, God is just a person kids know about because they hear His name mentioned now and again when somebody sneezes.

When I visualize heaven, I think of streets paved in shimmering gold. I picture every flower, tree, and bush of spring blooming at the exact same time. I see layers upon layers of open petals; the bright yellow forsythia has a towering backdrop of pale pink cherry trees, bright pink red buds, and white Dogwoods, while tulips, daffodils, pansies, and violas burst forth in flaming pastels from all directions. I imagine a luminous light reflecting every color in the spectrum so everything around me is exquisitely warm and cheery. I hear angels making the most beautiful music I’ve ever known, music from every instrument harmonizing together to create a constant, fluid melody that rings in my ears and echoes in my soul.

When my kids think about heaven, do they imagine the same glorious splendor of sights and sounds and emotions that I do . . . or are they picturing a workshop filled with toys at the top of the North Pole?

My son hasn't come right out and asked me if Santa Claus is real. I'm not sure he ever will. If he does, I'm sure I'll dodge the question with something about Santa being the symbol of the Christmas spirit, which is most definitely real in those who choose to make it a part of their lives during the holiday season, and hopefully, every day of the year. Or maybe I'll tell him the story of Nicholas, who was born during the third century and raised to care for and help others, especially children. Back then, and still in many places today, he became known as Saint Nicholas - you see where this leads, right?

As long as my son isn't asking me any direct questions about Santa, however, I'm going to keep my mouth shut. I'm going to wrap all his gifts in paper he's never seen. I'm going to make sure he leaves cookies and milk by the fireplace on Christmas Eve. I'm going to be amazed at the treasures in his stocking on Christmas morning. And when the holidays are over and the jolly man has resumed his post on top of the world, I'll stop talking about Santa Claus and how wonderful he is at Christmas time, and instead, I'll tell my son about God, and how wonderful He is ALL THE TIME.

I won’t forget the crisp sound of the slap as their hands met in the air. It was the sound of understanding. A surprising moment of connection, not just of flesh but of hearts; an unspoken agreement between two strangers who, for a moment at least, identified completely with one another.



They could have been a lot alike. In some ways, I guess they were. They were both boys, born and living in Atlanta. They were about the same age and smaller than they’d like to be. They had little sisters, loved hot dogs, and played basketball. And for this one afternoon, they sat side-by-side at a table while people in Santa hats mingled around them, sharing hugs and good cheer for the holiday fast approaching. They could have been a lot alike . . . but they weren’t.



One hand much lighter. Our son. Born into all the good fortune a life can hold. Two parents living together, both educated, one a provider of income and insurance. Two sets of healthy grandparents. A warm and safe home. Plenty of love. Plenty to eat. Plenty to wear. Plenty to play with. Plenty of everything. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



One hand shades darker. Her son. Born into another set of circumstances. A single mother, uneducated, working nights to support her three children. A grandmother addicted to drugs. Ten aunts and uncles; some placed out of reach in undisclosed foster homes. Plenty of love, but not enough of the other things, the things we had brought to give, the things we think of as basic necessities – food, clothes, blankets, toys. A sweet boy. A smart boy. A precious boy.



Funny how easily kids can get along despite their differences. They talked about sports and skateboards. They laughed about sitting on Santa’s lap. They smiled at each other when their mothers told them they could eat their dessert. They both knew why we were there. They might have known they wouldn’t have met otherwise. It didn’t matter. Because for the two hours they were together, they searched for the things they had in common, and when they found something, their hands reached up high, coming together in a celebratory slap of mutual appreciation.



I won’t forget the sound of that slap because I easily could have missed it. You see, when a friend asked if our family would like to participate in an adopt-a-family for Christmas program, I hesitated. I thought about the idea and I actually considered turning it down. With a husband working in commercial real estate, this is the first Christmas in several years that hasn’t caused a significant amount of financial strain, and I wanted to relish in our abundance. I wanted to buy bigger, better gifts for everyone on my list. I wanted to say yes to all the ornament exchanges and spoil family members I never get to spoil and have two Christmas trees instead of one. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’re having our basement renovated. As I write this, there are all kinds of crazy noises coming from below and I can see dust floating in from under the basement door and settling on my kitchen floor. I wanted hardwood floors in the basement. I wanted marble countertops and a glass tile backsplash and travertine floors. I wanted to go all out. And so . . . I hesitated.



We’ve never adopted a family before. My parents used to participate in a similar program when I was a kid, but I wasn’t really involved. My mom and dad would leave my brother and me with a babysitter and deliver “Christmas” to the family they had been matched with in downtown Atlanta. The program my friend invited us to join this year wasn’t a drop-off kind of program. It was a deliver “Christmas” in person kind of program. It was a sit down for lunch in a church fellowship hall with the family you adopted kind of program. That scared me. I was concerned about my own comfort. And so . . . I hesitated.



I don’t know what made me finally agree to participate in the program my friend invited us to be a part of, but we ended up in that church fellowship hall having lunch with our adopted family this past weekend. I left with questions. Why are there such differences between my son and hers?Why is my son so lucky? Why does he get it easy, with an abundance of opportunities surrounding him from every side? Why should someone else’s son have fewer chances? Why should someone else’s son have to fight so hard? Yet, despite my questions, the lasting impression of the day had nothing to do with the inequalities of life I often forget about because they so rarely impact me in a negative way. The image that will remain with me is the picture of my son and hers, their hands clasped together.



I don’t have the answers to my questions, and I never will, but I know God does. I think he was looking down on us in that church fellowship hall, rejoicing in the glorious sound as two of his children, so different and yet so much the same, found a reason to share, smile, and give one another a high five.

And next year . . . I won’t hesitate.

I have CDO. It’s like OCD, but the letters are in order like they should be. - From a
t-shirt in a catalog that somehow ended up in my mailbox this week. Coincidence???

I think not.

My friends, I have reached a new level of maturity. Frankly, I’m thinking my status as supermom might need reinstatement, for this week at least. I, control freak since birth and lifetime queen of wanting things done exactly like I want them done, have allowed my children to put colored lights on our Christmas tree this year.

Yep, you read it correctly.

Colored Christmas lights . . . on my tree . . . right now.

There are blue ones. There are yellow ones. There are red and green ones. There are even, heaven help me, pink ones. Pink lights are twinkling all over my Fraser Fir at this very moment and I don’t have a single urge to rip them off and replace them with white ones. Well, I might have a teensy eensy weensy little tiny urge. But I will not act on it.

Like I said, I have reached a new pinnacle of maturity.

Christmas lights have been a long-standing issue in our home. They simply don’t bring out the best in my husband and me. Well, mainly me. While we both employ the squinty eye technique to determine precise placement, we don’t go about the placement in the same manner. I prefer to start low and stay there until all dark spaces are illuminated. Adam likes to wind up and down and around the tree in a more haphazard spreading of the bulbs. After several Christmases and countless hours attempting to undo tangled strings of lights, we worked out a solution to this particular problem. Adam puts the lights on the Christmas tree every year in whatever manner he so chooses. When it’s time for the tree to come down, he tosses it in the woods with the lights still wound a hundred times around its branches. A wise budget decision? No. Vital to our marriage? Absolutely.

Last year, a new issue popped up in regards to Christmas lights. While I was off shopping one lovely Saturday morning, Adam and Charlie hung icicle lights on our front porch. Sound lovely? Well certainly, they are lovely . . . at night. But what about the other twelve hours of each day. How are you supposed to conceal all that tacky cording and those hideously large white plugs as they hang down in front of your beautifully wreathed front door?

I apologize if I’m offending anyone. To each his own – I love that about life. And I admit, I have seen good-looking icicle lights that probably cost a lot more than the ones my well-meaning husband purchased. At my house, however, cheap icicle lights on the front porch are not on the pre-approved list of appropriate holiday decorations. The beauty they provide from dusk until my bedtime is simply not worth it to me, possibly because I go to bed at 9:30.

I held it together in front of my son when this atrocity of Christmas preparation occurred last December. I oooed and ahhhed over the lights while Charlie was standing there. I admired his handiwork and raved about his creativity. Later, however, my husband received a verbal lashing of the worst kind. It was ugly. It was mean. It was completely un-Christmaslike. The icicle lights stayed up until December 26th, but only because the mother in me actually has a soul.

My husband and I had a pre-decorating discussion the following fall, solving the problem before it presented itself for a second time. The icicle lights are once again shining brightly at our house this December, only they’re on the back deck instead of the front porch. Still not my favorite, but a reasonable compromise, don’t you think, and certainly a clear sign of my evolving maturity.

As we’ve begun preparing for Christmas 2011 in the last couple of weeks, the kids have been helping me create ornaments for an advent tree. We have a book that traces the lineage of Christ through the Old Testament and gives specific Bible stories that show what led to Jesus’ birth. We are making an ornament to go along with each story. To further display my growing maturity, I must tell you that I have readily relinquished important tasks to my children during our recent ornament making sessions; tasks that involve markers, paint, pipe cleaners, glue, feathers, cotton balls, sequins, and (pray for me on this one) glitter. Our carpet is somehow sparkling and there is a lamb on our advent tree that looks like he’s robbing a bank, but still, it’s been hands off for me.

I’m not sure what set off my fresh take on Christmas. I suppose my laidback approach might be a sign of defeat. Perhaps I’m learning to wave the white flag in this war we affectionately call parenting. And make no mistake about it, my friends – it is a war. We are at war with the world and all the wonderfully awful things in it that can keep our children from being and doing what is good and right. When my kids were young, it was easy to convince them that their desires were the same as mine. Now, they know what they want, they tell me what they want, and I have to decide if what they want lines up with what I want for them. I’m fairly certain that as my children grow, the chance that their desires and mine will line up is going to get a whole lot slimmer, and quite frankly, the color of the lights on a Christmas tree isn’t a battle I’m up for fighting.

Maybe, though . . . maybe my carefree attitude exists because I finally decided to embrace the reality of Christmas, which is that it really is all about the kids. Well, it’s REALLY all about Jesus. But after that, it’s totally about the kids. I want Christmas to be magical for my kids. The wreath on our front door doesn’t need to be fancy. It simply announces to the world that we believe in the hope and peace that Christmas has to offer. Our mantel doesn’t need to look like it belongs on the cover of a magazine. It only needs to hold the stockings with my children’s names on them. We don’t need to wrap our tree with the perfect ribbon at just the right angle. It’s beautiful because it’s full of the symbols that remind Charlie and Libby of everything that is important to our family – love and life and fun and God. The gifts don’t have to be numerous and they certainly don’t need to be expensive. They just need to show the people we care about that they are special to us.

I’m pleased with the mature Christmas I’m having in 2011. I’m proud of the way I’m letting go of perfection and trying to bask in the glory of the holiday season instead. My cards don’t have the ideal picture, my tree leans slightly to the right, and the swags of garland on my staircase are a bit uneven. But I have an adoring husband. I have friends who care about me. I have a home. I have shoes on my feet, clothes in my closet, food in my refrigerator, gifts under my tree, Jesus in my heart. And I have two healthy children, my dreams come true, who are counting down the days until December 25th with pure excitement, and who are happy because they asked if they could have colored lights on their Christmas tree, and their mama remembered what it was all about, smiled, and said . . . yes.

Heeeeeeee’s coooommmmmmiiinnngggg!!!!!!!!!

I know he’s coming because my daughter helped me heave our jack-o-lanterns into the trashcan last week, soft and moldy from a month of sitting on our front porch greeting the neighbors with spooky smiles. I know because my favorite clothing stores have replaced the neutral shades of fall with sequins on every item. I know because there are people outside in thirty-eight degree temperatures stringing flashing lights along their bushes as the rain drips down their backs.

I know he’s coming because after eleven months of strolling to the mailbox without a hint of anticipation, I now rush towards it each afternoon awaiting glimpses of friends and family I haven’t seen in a while. I also know because when I open my mailbox to retrieve the festive greetings I’m so anxiously hoping to find, catalogs from every company ever established in the proximity of the world come tumbling out, their covers displaying all the latest in ornaments, stockings, and the $600 Lego set my son has requested this year.

I know he’s coming because although I don’t drink much coffee and I certainly can’t afford an eight-dollar cup of it, I suddenly find myself longing to sip on a gingerbread latte from Starbucks. I know because when I walk the ten steps from my bedroom to the kitchen each morning, I end up with at least a dozen pine needles stuck to the bottom of my fuzzy socks. I know he’s coming because my early morning quiet time is now being routinely interrupted by two children in matching plaid pajamas who rush around the house in search of a visitor from the North Pole they creatively named “Elfie.”

I know he’s coming because when I’m sitting alone in the carpool line at my kids’ school enjoying the calm before the storm, I realize I’m humming songs about a snowman who dances and, apparently, smokes? Plus, there’s a car behind me in said carpool line sporting antlers and a nose. I know he’s coming because despite the fact that I do not have a job, I have something that needs to be accomplished every day this week . . . and the next . . . and, oh please help me, the next.

I know he’s coming because I have begun to stash things inside bags, inside boxes, inside drawers my children never open. I know he’s coming because my house is awash in red and green, embroidered footwear hangs from my mantel, and I just spent close to a hundred bucks on “baking items.” Yes, parking lots are full, stores are swamped, and bank accounts are dwindling.

It’s official.

He’s coming. I know he’s coming.

The signs appeared early and the magic is everywhere, flowing through the air, bringing twinkles to eyes and tingles to hearts; making the whole world seem as if it’s glowing. On the twenty-fifth day of December, in all his Christmas glory, he will arrive, and children of all ages will scream and shout and jump for joy. And lives all over the world will be forever transformed.

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. Did you think I was talking about Santa? I mean . . . I totally love Santa. Actually . . . I am Santa. Most of the moms I know are. But I wasn’t talking about Santa. Don’t get me wrong. I know Santa Claus brings packages and toys and fun and, temporarily, happiness. He even has the power to make children scream and shout and jump for joy. But Santa isn’t in the business of changing lives forever. Santa can’t bring grace and mercy and peace and salvation and eternal life.

Only He can. And He’s coming.

He won’t come in a sleigh. He won’t come down a chimney. He won’t leave gifts.

He is the gift.

The greatest gift. The ultimate gift. The only gift we'll ever really need.

And He’s coming.