Santa doesn't stop here, and that's okay

I think I was about 8 or 9 years old when I learned the truth about Santa Claus.

I was spending time with my father, running errands around town, when we stopped in at a Radio Shack. My dad struck up a conversation with the clerk, and he brought up the fact that he'd bought a kareoke machine from that location the previous year, how the family was liking it, etc. Now, I'd already had some suspicions about the legitimacy of Ol' Saint Nick, but my fathers casual conversation that day sealed the deal. We'd been told the karaoke machine came from Santa, now I knew the truth. When I confronted my dad once we'd returned to the car, all he could say was, "Don't tell your sisters."

Whether or not I'd tell my kids there is a Santa Claus never really crossed my mind until I became a parent. By the time I married my husband, my bonus kids pretty much already knew he didn't exist, so it wasn't something I had to deal with. Then I gave birth to my first child, and when that first Christmas rolled around, I realized that whether or not Santa existed in our home was a choice I was going to have to make someday, and that it was something I was going to need to really think about.

I don't recall feeling devastated when I found out about Santa. As I said, I'd already had my suspicions, and finding out the truth about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy quickly followed. When I confided in my older sister, I learned she'd pretty much come to the same conclusions I'd had, and neither of us were too upset. I do vividly recall however how inconsolable my little sister was when she found out about the Easter Bunny. Why my mother chose to tell her in the middle of Kmart I've no idea, but the stares of passersby as she tried to calm my sisters heartbroken cries likely caused her to quickly regret that decision. The truth about Santa soon followed, accompanied by more heartache.

As my two year olds third Christmas quickly approaches, I've found myself contemplating more and more on whether or not I will tell my boys there is a Santa. When I mentioned to my father that I didn't think I would do things like Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy with my kids, I got a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head as a response. Guess I know his thoughts.

I spoke with my husband today and finally voiced what is in my heart. I don't want Santa for my sons. Why? The reason really boils down to this: I don't want to lie to my kids. I don't want the heartbreak they may suffer from finding a beloved idea is a work of fiction, and I don't want the betrayal they may feel knowing mommy and daddy intentionally told them something that wasn't true. There may be times in my life where lying to my kids may be my only option (though I certainly hope that is never the case), but this isn't one of those times. I am in no way judging any parents who choose to tell their children Santa exists, its just not something I feel I can do.

I didn't arrive at this decision lightly. I want my kids to enjoy the magic of the season and the wonder this time of year can bring. I want Christmas to be a time of love, laughter, and special moments, and I believe that can be accomplished without the assistance of Mr. Claus. I took into consideration my sisters heartbreak, my daughter telling me how upset and betrayed she felt upon learning the truth, and stories from friends about how their children reacted when they were told. I thought about how some kids get expensive gifts from the man in red, how some get clothes, and how some get "forgotten". I fought with myself, on the other handed, hemmed and hawed, and in the end kept coming back to the same conclusion. Sorry Santa, but ya gotta go.

My sons will be raised without Father Christmas, but they will also be raised to not ruin Santa for the children who do believe. I remember fighting as a child with a friend whose family didn't believe in Santa, vehemently insisting my parents wouldn't lie to me, as they just as passionately insisted he didn't exist, and there's no need for that. Just because he's not right for us, doesn't mean he's not right for someone else's home.

Santa won't be leaving any gifts under our tree this year, or any year. We will still sing songs about him, watch Santa themed movies, and maybe even take photos at the mall because I do think it's part of the fun. Just as dragons and faeries are fun to pretend, so is Santa. But he doesn't have to be real for us to have a merry Christmas.

I swear, I used to be funny

This morning, as I once again used Twitter as a sound board to vent my frustrations, I thought to myself, "Dammit, I used to be funny! I used to have people tell me they couldn't WAIT to read my thoughts on the day or about the things that happened to me that I made sound like an epic adventure. Now all I do is whine and complain, what happened?"

Truth is, I'm not sure. At some point in the last three to four years, I've slowly turned more and more into a whiny, cantankerous witch, and I don't like it. I tell myself I don't like it, I tell myself I'm going to change, I try to be more positive for a few days, then something happens and there I go again, complaining like a two year old that was told I can't have a popsicle for lunch.

Granted, a LOT has happened to me in the last few years. I moved out of my fathers house and into a rental home (which my dad owns), got married and instantly became a mother to three kids, became pregnant with my first child (and have basically been pregnant non-stop since then with 6 month gaps between kids), bought my first car, had two of my step kids move back with their mom, lost multiple sources of income, and ultimately lost my job due to massive lay-offs, which has lead to us going on WIC and will likely eventually have to apply for food stamps because I cant seem to figure out how to support my household on $300 a month and still pay all our bills, and there's no point in trying to get another job because I've got three kids under three come September, and with the cost of childcare I'd have to earn above minimum wage and work full time, and my local economy can't offer a job like that. So, yeah, a lot.

With all that living and learning and losing and stressing in the last few years, I've also lost a lot of what made me... me. I used to sing, draw, take photos, write, go on spur of the moment adventures, do things just because, and tried to live life to the fullest. Now my life revolves around my husband and my kids, and the most exciting thing I do all day is play, "Guess what died in the sippy cup" and "Dear God, what's under the couch?!" and man, it's hard! I love my kids, wouldn't change having gotten married and becoming a mother for the world, but I have moments where I dream about what it would be like to have my "old life" back for just a moment, and then I deal with the guilt that inevitably comes with even thinking those thoughts.

Speaking of guilt, I never realized just how much GUILT comes with being a mother before I became one. It's ridiculous! You feel guilty for every little thing, even something as simple as taking a five minute shower by yourself can induce guilt because you're kids start crying as soon as they realize they can't "play in the water" with you. Heaven forbid you close the bathroom door to take a poo. The sounds coming from your kids of utter abandonment are enough to make you feel like you've committed an unforgivable sin. And now I'm writing this blog post one handed because my teething one year old needs me to hold him, and my two year old is using some toy as a "hungry monster" trying to eat my shirt, so I should probably take the hint and wrap this up.

The conclusion to all this is, well, I guess there isn't one. I'll try to be more positive and I'll inevitable find something new to whine about in a few days (if not this evening). It's been hard to find out who I am since I got married, because my entire sense of self has revolved around either my family or my job, and now I'm a stay at home mom and my days revolve around little Napoleons and I don't see that ending any time soon. My husband bless his heart tries to help me and wouldn't deny me a night out or a hobby, but that just revolves back to that whole "guilt" thing again. Is there a happy medium for me? Who knows, guess I'll have to keep trying to find out.

Invisible Scars

“It is not the the bruises on the body that hurt. It is the wounds of the heart and the scars on the mind.”
― Aisha Mirza

“The past is behind us," said Boudicca,"but the difficulty there is we keep looking over our shoulders.”
― Michelle Franklin


I am a child of abuse.

There. I said it. I've touched on it over the years, mentioned it to friends here and there, but I've never actually said the words.

I often downplay the abuse in my mind, tell myself it was nothing compared to what others have experienced, that I shouldn't really talk about it, that it was "normal", that there's no point in bringing up the "sins" of the dead, etc.

But it affects every single day of my life. It affects how I view myself as a person, as a mother. It's the vicious voice in my head that tells me I'm not good enough. It is the voice of my mother, a person who should have protected me, not hurt me.

My mother... well, she had a lot of demons. She herself was the child of abuse. She was often verbally and emotionally abused, was beaten, and came from a broken home. She married very young in an effort to escape an abusive father (who likely came from a long line of abusers based on the stories I've heard of his childhood), only to end up in an unhappy first marriage that resulted in a divorce. She suffered a miscarriage during her life and buried another child. She also suffered from a multitude of health problems which required a variety of medications that slowly killed her in some ways while keeping her alive in others, and which ended up ultimately contributing to her sudden death.

None of the items above excuse my mother from the abuse she put myself and my sisters through (my brother has never spoken of any abuse, and he had left the home by the time I can remember the abuse starting, which is why he's not mentioned), but they have helped me work towards forgiving her over the years. I love her and in ways I miss her, and I no longer blame her for the things she said and did. I don't even blame my grandfather anymore, though I did for years after her death (and the comments he made about her RIGHT after we left the hospital where she'd been pronounced dead only fed that blame), but I still live with invisible scars. Forgiveness does not always equal healing.

A few instances of abuse from my childhood stick out quite vividly in my mind... The time I told her I wanted to go to a public school (I was home-schooled partly due to my mothers health issues) and how ANGRY she became. She called me names, recited a cruel rhyme of, "Fatty fatty two-by-four, can't get through the kitchen door" that she heard in her childhood and told me that is what I'd hear in school because of my weight, and verbally abused me throughout that day. My older sister (who often was a target of my mothers abuse) urged me to apologize, to tell our mother that I didn't mean it, that we make her a cup of tea as a peace offering and try to sooth her anger.
The time she'd gotten angry at me for some reason I can't recall, and said to me that she'd found items in my room that, "Shocked her as to the kind of person that I was.". That ate at me for the longest time until I finally had the nerve to ask her what she could have possibly found that caused her to be so repulsed by me. Her response? "Oh, I don't know. I likely just said it to hurt you.". My mother often said cruel things just for the sake of being cruel, and I can't ever recall a time where she apologized for it.
The time she slapped me because I "looked" at her wrong.
The time she screamed at and punished me because I didn't freeze some spaghetti sauce that I didn't know I was supposed to freeze.
The time I stood between her and my older sister as she held a belt, and she threatened to let our dogs out, and that it would be my fault because I made her do it.
The time she screamed at and said horrible things to me because I refused to give her a large bowl of ice cream, regardless that my reason was because she was diabetic and I felt I was contributing to what would be her eventual death by giving in to her commands (when she died I felt extreme guilt over not standing up to her more often when she'd ask me to do things that I knew would harm her. I felt like I'd killed her because I was too much of a coward to say no).
Getting yelled at because I didn't put the paper towel or toilet paper roll on the "right" way, or not folding the towels correctly.
The time I stood in the way when she was going to force my older sister to pick up dog poop with her bare hands and I managed to at least get her to be able to wear gloves when I couldn't make the punishment stop completely.
That my mother let me physically and emotionally abuse my older sister and let me think it was normal because I saw my mother do it, that I was encouraged to do it, that I didn't realize it was wrong until I overheard my aunt tell my mother that the way I treated my sister was wrong and my mother told her to butt out, and the guilt I feel over my actions to this day.

Why am I writing this? Why am I talking about this? Because. Because my childhood affects me every day. Because I live in fear that the abuse won't end with me. Because I contemplated suicide as a teenager because of it and the only thing that stopped me as I held that bottle of sleeping pills in my hand was the fear of going to hell. Because I'm terrified every time I become frustrated with my children that I will turn into my mother. Because I second guess myself constantly as a parent on whether I'm being fair or if I'm being cruel when it comes to punishment. Because the voice I hear that feeds my poor self esteem and fear of failure is my mothers and I don't know how to make it stop. Because I tell myself NOT to talk about it, that it doesn't matter, that I'm just whining and I should shut up. Because abuse is abuse, no matter it's shape or form.

The abuse I suffered as a child is something I have to live with and work through every day. It has shaped who I am as a person. The pain from abuse lingers long after the abuse has ended. Our words and actions leave lasting imprints on those around us, and we need to be mindful of this fact.

I am a child of abuse. I am a fighter. I am a survivor. I want a better life for my children, my family, and myself. I want the abuse to end with me. I never want my children to ever feel what I have felt. I don't want my brokenness to break them. I don't want history to repeat itself.




I want to be free.