Angel Boobies and Other Christmas-Induced Lies

"Mommy, do angels have boobies?"  Mr. R asked.

Just shy of a spit take on my coffee, I glanced at the ambiguously bosomed figurine atop our Christmas tree.  "Not unless they're from Victoria's Secret," I said. I thought I’d scored a trifecta -- clever, cryptic and putting the kibosh on this awkwardness.

Only temporarily. It continued at dinner. "Can we see Victoria's Secret?"  

Now, ain't that some s#^%?  The child forgets the socks I asked him to bring ten seconds before, but remembers the name of a soft porn empire throughout an entire day. 

"Um, not unless she's on TV."  Phew!  Luckily, we never got Vicky’s Secret catalogs anymore.  High waisted camel-toe highlighting jeans gave me hives, and anyone looking through my underwear drawer would think I was a zaftig and slovenly 67 year old.  

"Well, can she come to our house?"

"I don't think she has time for that.  She is very busy."  Not a lie, really. They are supermodels after all.  They have supermodelly things to do. Like not eat and go clubbing and beat away the men that flock to them like pigeons to a dropped hot dog bun.

"Would she talk to us?"  

Oh, dear God!  "Only if she's a nice angel.  Some of them are not so nice." Wha?!! Maybe someone like Heidi Klum actually would talk to us? I mean she and I are the same age, our kids are mixed race, although my clothes would only meet the runway if they somehow fell out of a plane during take-off…

"Well, when can we meet her?"

"You've got plenty of time for that. I don't want to talk about this any more, okay?" An image of my son as an adolescent getting an eyeful of angel boobies flashed into my head.  Yep. Plenty of time.  

While that was the most titillating, tee-hee, of this season's quagmire of lies, there was also Santa Claus. Here I was, a mother trying to preserve her child's innocence, and I was making an inside trader look like a preschool teacher.  How does Santa get through the chimney? He turns into angel dust and drifts on down.   How does he go so fast? Warp speed. Don’t you remember The Polar Express? Does he really get to all the children in the world?  Um, NO, of course not, silly!  Only the good ones. 

Photo: Armadillo444, courtesy of Flickr

The child is four. Back in 1976 I believed it all.  The chimney, even though we lived in an apartment sans fireplace (Maybe he just used the window?), the cookies, EVERYTHING!!!! Was I just a super trusting little girl who loved myth and magic, or was I totally uninquistive with the critical thinking skills of a ketchup bottle?  

And third is the elf on the shelf thing.  Lady A remains hahribble about bedtime.  If not for that EOTS, I'd have to make her a Shirley Temple so we could be drinking buddies, watching The Colbert Report together.

The second I lay Lady A down and tuck her in, she bolts upright, claiming to need a book, a doll, some water, to pee, a hug, to kiss her brother whom she's been biting all day, you name it.  

Then Mama snaps.

Becoming both menacing and hysterical, I point to the endearing judge of an elfess sitting her bookshelf, and lay down the flipping law. "When you wake up on Christmas morning and find no baby doll whatsoever... when you find nothing, not a strand of hair or one impossibly long and thick eyelash, you'll know why! Because you were so naughty, and wouldn't sleep and the elf went right to Santa to PUNISH YOU!"  

I rush to grab my phone and "call" Santa on the elf's behalf. 

That puts her down almost instantly, and makes her stay there as if glued to the sheets.

Answer me this people, how will I get my girlchild in line when Christmas is over? Without the EOTS I am nothing.  I am a pathetic loser of a disciplinarian. 

I cannot let go of this lie magic.  I NEED leverage!  Screw it.  Bring on the whoppers! Right after Christmas, any bad behavior will be met with, “That’s it! The Lincoln's Birthday Fairy won't be bringing you ANYTHING!"

Merry Christmas, everyone!!!!

xo,

Keesha