Is Santa Real?

The other day, while his sister was at a sleepover, my son asked if Santa was real.  Ugh. The dreaded question.  That is, before the birds and the bees.  Thankfully it wasn't, "Why do I feel so weird inside when I look at Emily?" but rather, "Is the wonderful, magical man who brings toys and delight to me once a year, real?"

Back on March 17th, I put together a cute St. Patrick's Day scene for a photo shoot for my cake blog: a green-dyed cupcake with part of it cut away, green painted footprints leaving the scene, and teeny-tiny dishes strewn about as if a little leprechaun had had a delicious green cupcake picnic.

My kids came home and looked at the little scene where I had my camera set up.  While Little Miss admired it, and moved on, her brother looked at it in wonder.

"Oh, look, mom, it's been eaten!"

I was sitting in an armchair reading a book in the other room, and I looked up in surprise as I realized he truly believed a leprechaun had come.  We'd never talked of leprechauns before.  In fact, Little Miss made me look it up on the internet.  She said, "the footprints are just paint."  But still, his imagination was undeterred.

I showed him the paint tray which he had been using just the day before, with the little shoes I had used to create the footprints.  I thought for sure he'd know I did it.

"OH! He took the shoes!" he cried, as Little Miss scolded me for using her toy's shoes.

I couldn't believe it, and I couldn't break the spell.  I didn't want to.  It wasn't until after his dad came home, that he started to question it.

Alone in the kitchen after supper he asked me if I had done it.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

"The truth."

"Yes, I did it.  I wanted to do something fun and cute, and it was fun and cute, wasn't it?"

"Yes." And then he went back to eating his ice cream as the whole discussion rolled off his back.

That night the kids brought it up again, but this time with bigger questions.  "Well, who fills our stockings? and what else isn't real?"

I wasn't ready to let it all go that day so I asked, "well, what do you believe in? Fairies? Pixies? Ghosts? Santa?"

"Well, Santa's real!" Little Miss firmly said.

"And I know the tooth fairy is real - unless you do that, too!" my son said, accusingly. I just laughed.

We've never done the Easter bunny thing or the leprechaun thing or the elf on the shelf...but in the belief of something unseen, they clung to the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, until today.

"Is Santa real?" my son asked, while his sister was away.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask.

"The truth."

As I looked at my son in the rearview mirror of the car, I knew that when he would return to school in the fall he would be too old to believe in Santa.  That the other kids probably would know the truth already.  And I know with his sweet little heart, he would not break the news to the ones who did not, including his little sister.

So I told him the truth.  And he went back to eating his ice cream as the whole discussion rolled off of his back.

It was only my heart that broke.

Why I Choose to Be Disorganized

I hate being organized.

Okay, I hate trying to be organized.  I have never been organized.

Being a self-proclaimed CEO of the Schaafsma Household, I expect myself to be uber-organized, with all my ducks in order, etc., etc., but it's too much.  To get my desk cleaned off, bills paid within the deadline, and everything filed, is a monthly accomplishment.  To do it daily is ridiculous.

Likewise, the only way I am going to clean up after dirtying a dish is to make my kids empty the dishwasher before I even wake up in the morning - so there are no excuses.  I need my kids to keep me tidy.  Pathetic, isn't it.

Walking through the aisles of the public library this afternoon, I averted my eyes while passing the self-help, homemaking, and family cooking sections.  No matter how many times I have attempted to improve myself, I eventually go back to my "old ways".

"Old ways" include baking homemade muffins filled with whole grains, berries and/or chocolate chips, and leaving the bowls, spoons and measuring cups on the counter. Doing a full load of laundry, washed and dried, and dumping it on my bed to be folded later, only to be thrown to the floor as I crawl into bed at the end of day. And finally, my husband's favourite, when changing the bag of milk, I cut the corner off, let it fall into the top drawer, and leave the used bag of milk in the sink, expecting it to wash and recycle itself later.

Sad.  I know.

Okay, so these are extreme, and heaven help me if my mother-in-law reads this, but I am my father's child, and expect to be picked up after, even though there is no one to do it.  Fortunately, I married a man who cleaned his mate's room in college, and was trained by an uber-organized woman to clean up after himself, love the one your with, and even pick up after them, (a.k.a. enabler).

Part of it is mom's fault, but I love her for it.  I grew up in an artist's home.  We painted, we imagined, we created with clay, props, knitting, dolls and the like.  Who had time to clean up?  While others learned how to cook and clean and take responsibility, I was having too much fun.

One day a few years ago we had both moms over for a visit.  The dads were helping Mr. Man build something mannish, while the women sat inside with the kids.  My mother-in-law got out the ironing board and ironed Mr.'s work shirts (but not his cape) while my mom sat and read stories to the kids.  Two totally different ladies.  And two totally different offspring.

I went away for a week back in April, and Mr said the kitchen counters were spotless except for the two days my mom came to stay and help.  "It was as if you were home!" he said, laughing.  She was having too much fun cooking and baking, building forts in the basement and going for walks.  The work would get done, but not right away.

Over the last few years, Mr. and I have met just about halfway.  I've learned how to clean house, thanks to a few friends and pinterest, and he has stopped freaking out and running around cleaning if someone is coming over.  In fact, friends have stopped warning him and just show up in order to keep him from working up a sweat.

He should just do it like me. I just pile the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, the oven, or a box out back.

There is a new neighbour next door, who I am sure I will write about in length this year.  C-r-a-z-y.  However, I have yet to invite her in as my house has kids, a large dog, crumbs and kids artwork all over.  Is a new person ready for this?  I don't know.

Luckily we have a grand gazebo in the backyard complete with a futon, table and chairs in which to entertain.  So far she is a backyard neighbour.  Plus, she might steal something...

Honestly, I don't do a lot of what I used to.  I've grown up.  And mom even comes over and cleans up things I've missed.  She, too, has grown up.  (But she brings fun activities with her.)  I pay the bills mostly on time, I fold the laundry and teach the kids how to do it, and I actually like sweeping.  Mr. Man has stopped doing the chores over again after I have done them, and has succumbed to letting me throw the milk bags in the garbage instead of washing them out (because they never get washed out).

I will never be the "tidy mom," or the "organized mom," but like my mom before me, I will be the "creative mom," and most importantly, the "loving-supportive-good-for-a-laugh mom." When averting my eyes from the organization section in the library, I am not looking down in shame, but in pity.  Pity for those who have not reached my level of maturity and self-worth.  I am disorganized, but  such a lovely person - and my kids love me.

Mr. Man? He just buys them candy.