Don’t talk to Santa

Ramona hates it when I get “wisiting” with a friend of mine (or a friend of hers or a woman in the grocery line or her father or my mother, etc.). She furrows her brow, puts her hand on her hip, and tells me “we need to get going” or “your playdate’s over”.

I try to wind things down and move on, but I like talking SO much. It’s hard sometimes.

On Christmas Eve she didn’t want to go to sleep. She was having too much fun and she wanted to see Santa. Grannabelle (the Truthteller-no-longer), Papa, Philip, and I wove a web of lies to convince her to stay in bed and fall asleep. “Santa’s in Kansas making his way here, you need to get in bed so he can come. He’s not going to stop here if you’re awake.”

With wide-eyes she listened and bought it hook, line, and sinker and got into bed. As I tucked her into bed, she started with the questions, “Mom, don’t all the grown ups need to go to bed too so Santa can come?” She calls me “Mom” if she has something serious to talk about.

“Well, Sweetie, Santa doesn’t care if I am awake. He just wants the kids to be asleep.”

“Okay. Well, Mama, don’t talk to Santa when he comes. Because you might get in the mood [to talk too much] and then he won’t make it to other children’s houses. Don’t talk to him.” She calls me Mama when she wants to talk me into something.
I took a vow of silence and she finally fell asleep.