And The Answer Is.....

Although having a 6 month old is challenging (yes, he's 6 months now - wah...), I'll take his crying fits and dirty diapers over the CSI-style questioning my daughter has been subjecting me to lately. These are questions to which I have no idea how to answer without shattering her dreams or completely horrifying her. You'll see what I mean.

Today she had a series of questions about Santa Claus. In our house, Miss Sassypants still believes in the big guy. I'm glad because it's such a magical experience for her and the longer we can continue the charade, the better. Don't get me wrong, if she's 18 and still waiting for Old St. Nick to come down the chimney, my parenting skills should be questioned. But as I see it, a few more years can't hurt.

Today she asked me: "What happens if Santa dies? Do they have a replacement? And is Santa born like in a mom's tummy, or does he just appear?" As far as I know, there's no manual in the world that tells you how to answer these types of questions. (Look into that and get back to me if there is.) And to be fair, these are really good questions. Considering that I'm lying to her about the entire Santa situation, I just said: "you know, what? That's a good question! Nobody ever told me either. Maybe you should ask Santa next year." Ha! I feel sorry for the old mall Santa who gets those drilling questions. Might make him spit up his eggnog. But in parenting, passing the buck is always a valid option.

While we're on the subject of Santa, we might as well talk about the stork. I've never used the stork story with Miss Sassypants. I've been pretty honest to her about where babies come from. The way I explained it is that the daddy has a seed and the mom has an egg and they mix together in the mommy's tummy and the baby grows in there. I'm extremely grateful that she's never asked me about how the egg and seed get in the mommy's tummy. I'm still surprised she's never asked. That's so unlike her to leave any stone unturned. If it does come up, I may have to revert to the stork, cabbage patch or download theories. 

I guess the question for us parents is how much information is too much information, and at what age are certain things appropriate? I want her to know where babies come from because it's important to know the truth, but how much do you reveal? And if I'm telling her the truth about babies, why am I lying to her about Santa? Again, if you find that manual, email me :) Being a parent is flippin' hard.

Better go. The baby is screaming (again), the cat just threw up on the carpet and I need to apply another coat of ointment to my eye which is suffering from a fourth bout of pink eye. Miss Sassypants brought it home from school a few months ago and I can't seem to get rid of it completely. Threw out the makeup, washed my pillow cases, disinfected everything from light switches to phones to computers. I'm about to poke my eyes out with a fork.

Isn't Every Day Like Saturday?

On Saturday morning, I came downstairs and declared "Gosh I love glorious Saturdays!" To which my husband responded, "isn't every day like Saturday to you?" Huh? Are you serious right now? I then told him like it was.

Now yes, it's true I'm currently a SAHM which means I can technically stay in my pjs all day if I really want to (which I never do). And yes, I don't have to be up at 6am to get ready for work and get the kids ready for daycare like I used to. But getting this house going on a weekday morning is so NOT like Saturday morning. Why??

A. I'm outnumbered on weekdays. My husband leaves before we get up so I have to get Miss Sassypants ready for school while keeping Mr. Crankypants from screaming his little head off. Two against one, not good. Even I can do that math.

B. See, my darling daughter has S.O.S, shiny object syndrome, which means she is easily distracted. For example, she starts to get dressed but then she'll find a piece of pink belly button lint, get distracted and it's back to square one again. I must repeat the following lines at least 8 times every morning. "Eat your breakfast! Get dressed! Brush your teeth! Stop playing with your brother! Don't sit on the cat! Focus!" I'm thinking of recording it and just pressing the appropriate button when needed.

C. Mr. Crankypants. He's a category all on his own. My baby, unless I'm carrying him around or nursing him, cries all day. I wish he had S.O.S. so he'd be interested in something else other than me and my food bar. If I'm not carrying him around during the morning routine, he screams at the top of his lungs. I'm sure my nieghbours can hear. I'm sure the polar bears in the Arctic can hear. He's no dainty screamer my baby. Sometimes my ears bleed.

D. Unlike Saturdays, when my husband can help me, I have to find ways to entertain Mr. Crankypants while I do common every day things like shower, do my hair/makeup (yes, I do my makeup every day), make myself something to eat. You get the picture. My house is like the baby Olympics. I have to set up the baby at different events just so I can keep him distracted while I try to do things. The Jolly Jumper is for when I'm showering. The exersaucer is for when I'm in the kitchen. The bouncy chair is for when I'm doing laundry. The swing is when I need him to fall asleep. How did people have babies before these gadgets by the way?

My hubby didn't say this in a mean, malicious way. He really thinks that every day is a holiday for me. I'm not sure why he gets that impression, but being at home is harder than any job I've ever had. EVER!

So honey, no. EVERY DAY IS NOT LIKE SATURDAY for us SAHM. It's. Really. Not.