Going to See the Fat Man

So...somehow a post I wrote last week about going to see Santa at an Autism Connection of PA event, posted without my knowledge.  Well, to be fair, it posted when it was supposed to post over at Childswork.com...it just sort of slipped from my mind.  So yesterday, slaving away for the man, I didn't even glance at it, or twitter, and it just sort of sat there and gathered dust and wondered forlornly whether it's daddy was going to visit it.

I feel so bad.  I'm sorry, post...daddy's going to visit you today, I swear.

Going to see Santa; going ANYWHERE really, requires some planning for us.  It's more than just hopping in a car and standing in line, and it is for most of the people that read this blog too.

Here's how WE do it:

"A Visit to St. Nicholas"

As a special preview of one of the tips...I'll give you a spoiler.  "Take lots of pictures".

I Dodged a Bullet I Fired at Myself

I don't know what the hell is wrong with me.  Fresh from our victory murdering Santa Claus in front of our 10 year old, and then essentially butchering him Buffalo Bill style and parading around in front of her in a suit of his skin (fine, we came clean about Santa, and explained that WE are Santa, essentially, but it loses a vital element of brutality if you say it that way), I decided, without really deciding, that I was going to explain how babies are made sort of against my own will.  I know that makes no sense.

I was doing dishes in the kitchen while Emma was finishing her supper and Lily played in the family room.  Emma was disagreeing with me about something I was saying.  I can't even remember what, but I decided to play dramatic.

"Oh fine...don't agree with me.  ME!  Your father, your own flesh and blood."
"Well..."
"Well what?
"Well why shouldn't I disagree?"
"Because I own you!  I created you!"

It was here, right at this spot, where something inside my own brain detached and inaudibly joined the conversation .  I'll bold my brain's comments.  Returning you now to the last thing...

"Because I own you!  I created you!"
Really Jim?  You're really going to bring up creating her?  HOW'D you create me dad?  Want to talk about that?  Is this conversation going according to some plan?
I'll fix it, I thought, "Well, not REALLY created you.  I mean, I had a hand in it.  Well...not a hand.  Look, I just mean, I only partly created you."
Please...Please just stop talking now.
"Yeah," she replied, "only partly, like maybe 25%."
Okay...good.  She's closed that chapter.
"25%?  How'd you come up with 25%?  Two people, one half, what's the percentage?"
Oh my god SHUT UP!!!  What the hell???

The conversation more or less died then, with the subjects of "How EXACTLY do you calculate the percentage of creation" and "What are the mechanics of said creation between a mommy and a daddy" somehow...miraculously...unasked.  But not for lack of trying on my part.

Something's Missing

The theme of today's blog post is:  What's missing?

Food goes here. . . but also, hey, where'd that toof go?

SOMETHING is amiss.  And if you can't spot it, you can perhaps be forgiven.  Over the course of two days, this picture (to your right) represents the absolute best picture I was able to capture to show it.  Or . . . not show it. . . depending upon how you look at it.  I added an arrow in case it still wasn't obvious.


Two days after the Super Bowl, while at school, my baby lost her first toof.  I say toof because it's way cuter sounding than tooth, and six is a cute age.


So she lost her toof, and that leads to a fantastic new lie to tell her, namely the the Tooth Fairy, but let's face it, if I can't even really get the concept of Santa Claus to take root in her mind, I'm sure as hell not bending over backward to insert this lie.


Complicating matters further. . . neither the school nor the daycare had any idea where the toof was.  In fact, when I picked my angel up from daycare, I enthusiastically observed, "She lost her tooth!"


The daycare worker (washing Lily's hands at the time) said, "I noticed that."


There was a pause that stretched uncomfortably long before I asked, "And. . . do you know where it might be?"  She did not.


I went through her book bag and lunch box and pockets and clothing bags. . . nothing.


When we got home I poured over the details of Lily's day as faithfully chronicled by her dedicated school aide.  There was no mention of a toof.


Really?  Because that seems like the kind of thing you'd note in your log book.  "Lily had a good day today and sat attentively in Mr. R's class.  In the afternoon we ate a hotpocket and . . . she lost her tooth."  (for example) Something like that.  But there was no mention.


The following day I asked the daycare if they had any ideas.  The morning daycare worker swears she left the daycare with all her teeth.  The afternoon daycare worker swears she arrived without one of them.  The school acknowledged that they noticed at some point during the day that it was no longer in evidence in her mouth-al area.


*Sigh*.  It made me sad in an ironic sort of way.  I have bitched about "What are we doing with all these damned teeth?" in the past.  But those were Emma's teeth.  Each blessed bloody enameled treasure of which is tucked in my wife's jewelry box in our room.  "Why are we keeping these?"  There is no good answer to this question.  And yet I find myself ironically sad because I don't have another useless bloody tooth to collect and store and bitch about unnecessarily keeping that represents Lily's contribution.  I guess it feels a bit like a tiny betrayal. . . cared enough to save all of Emma's, but didn't even get Lily's first?  Bad parents!  Bad!


Ultimately, it's probably nobody's fault.  We'd told the daycare and school that the tooth was loose, very loose, and to be on the lookout, but it would not surprise me in the slightest if Lily swallowed it at some point during the course of the day.


That night, Emma wrote a letter to the Tooth Fairy on Lily's behalf, explaining about the tooth being lost, and where it might be found, and apologizing for the inconvenience, and in the morning the Tooth Fairy had responded with a five dollar bill and reassurances that all was well written in glittering ink.


I held off writing this post thinking perhaps someone would find the tooth the next day, or the next, giving me a happy ending, but if it went where I THINK it went, it's probably just as well that nobody has.  I've had a few days to make my peace with it, and I'm not sad anymore.  My little girl is growing up.