"Shhhh! Are you crazy?! Do you want him to hear you?" If he wants to doubt the existence of the fat man out loud, that's one thing... but to bring me down with him? That's another thing all together.
Every freaking year we go through this and every freaking year I tell this kid the same thing.
"When I am ninety and you are not and I am knocking on death's door and you ask me one final time to tell you whether or not there is a Santa Claus, I will hold your face in my hands, kiss you on the forehead and with every ounce of life left in me, I will thump you between the eyes and scream 'WHAT PART OF THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND??!!'"
Last year he took a different approach.
"Mom," he said in his squeaky trying to become a man voice, "this year you really have to tell me the truth."
Just before I hit him squarely with my yule log, he demanded, "No! Listen to me! This is really important!"
I holstered my log and did as he asked.
"Let's say I grow up and get married and have three kids. I have a good job and a nice house and Christmas rolls around."
"Yeah. I'm with you. You still live near your Mom, right?"
He rolled his eyes and continued, "Me and my wife tuck the kids in bed and go to bed ourselves."
"Now when you say you and the wife go to bed, you mean twin beds, right son?"
"We wake up early when the kids come in and jump on the bed, excited to see what Santa left for them, OK?"
"OK."
"And guess what, Mom? There are no presents! There is nothing under the tree at all! And do you know why?"
"Because you married someone your Mother told you not to and her side of the family contaminated our gene pool therefore causing my grandbabies to be hateful little monsters?"
"No, Mom. They won't get anything because no one ever told me there was no Santa Claus so I didn't buy them anything! I'd have to look at my kids and say sorry kids. My bad. I thought Santa was gonna take care of it."
He sat there for a moment waiting for the reality of this horrible thing I'd done to my future grandchildren to set in.
"So, Mom. Do you have anything to tell me?" He stared at me wide-eyed, secure in the knowledge that he had outsmarted me. He was finally going to have the satisfaction of hearing his Mother admit what he thinks he wants to know.
"Yes I do, Big Dog. I want to explain to you in detail how babies are made, most particularly how your Dad and I made you, and why Mom has cramps once a month."
End of Christmas question and answer session.
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1 comment:
That was "check" and "checkmate!"
Perfect spin! Now I only wish that worked with daughters.......sigh!
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