Sob story

Crying has always come easily to me. Like breathing or screwing up a chicken dish. And it's never taken much to turn that faucet on. A sappy commercial; any book about animals; high humidity.

However, despite this emotional instability, I used to be able to do certain things in life with a bit of composure. For instance, I used to be able to watch the news, take a walk, and exercise all without breaking into tears. Yes, I was affected by heartbreaking stories that were sometimes in the headlines, but I managed to get through them all with some poise.

Then I had kids.

The change was instant. It's almost as if just before exiting my body my oldest son reached his tiny arm up into my brain and flicked off the "Stability" switch nestled somewhere between Geometry and Yoga. (To be fair it had been flickering on and off for years.)

Suddenly everything changed. The simple things in life that I used to enjoy became emotional minefields.

I still watch TV and read obsessively, but I now have to be much more selective with my choices. I've had to avoid anything that focuses on, or even dances around topics like: children who are sick, children who are hungry, children who are poor, children who are sad, children who are abused, children who have disabilities, children who are tired, children who are overtired, children who like bugs, children who dance, children who don't like Grover and children who are scared of chick peas. You get my point.

In fact, I can only stomach stories about kids who are on a family vacation at Disney, eating cotton candy, being twirled around by their doting parents while clinging to a large stuffed animal and smiling crazily through their sticky teeth. And even then, I'm liable to lose it. Seriously, what's a bigger tear-jerker than a loving father swinging his little baby around in the air?

Also, anything about animals is completely off limits. I can say with certainty that I will never watch Bambi again. And while I love books about dogs, I know they're not a smart choice anymore unless I have a full week to recover in private. Seriously. "The Art of Racing in the Rain" (a simple, sweet novel about a race car driver and his dog) nearly landed me in therapy.

So how do I navigate through my days without breaking down? The news is easy enough to filter. I can mute Brian Williams. I can browse headlines on CNN.com and opt to read about Kate Middleton's hats instead of a young mother who drowns her children because she's mad at her baby daddy.

But try as I might to tune out these sad stories it's impossible to avoid them all.

Every day I go to the gym to try and "get away from it all." Unfortunately the gym has become the scene of some embarrassing breakdowns. Most days I run on the treadmill.  I hate running and so getting though those miles requires a certain mindset that I can only achieve with mindless television. It sounds benign enough. Except. I watch Oprah.

I'm watching the 25th season religiously as I run. And it's killing me. One day she's giving away iPads and cars and making people cry with joy. Twenty-four hours later she's detailing the horrific abuse some poor child suffered at the hands of their unstable father who could be Charles Manson's less sane brother.

So there I am on bouncing around on the treadmill, wiping the tears away from my eyes and tying to make it look like I'm simply extracting a pesky eyelash - for 60 minutes.

I realize Oprah is simply doing her part to help society, (and CONSTANTLY reminding her audience about how she's doing her part to help society) but she's turning me into an emotional basket case one "Ah-ha!" moment at a time.

(Yes, I realize I could change the channel but that requires extra effort and I'm already channeling all of my energy into my legs at that moment.)

Walking down the street has also become risky. Again, it seems simple enough, unless you have given birth.

All I have to do is glance down and see a child's abandoned sock or shoe sitting in a muddy puddle. The fact that this child most likely manually ejected this piece of clothing from their own body because mommy wouldn't give them a third lollipop is irrelevant. I'm sure that this child is locked in the back of a windowless van, being carted away to a hopeless fate. In an instant my quick trip to CVS for Comet has become a heart-wrenching trek down a treacherous city street. I picture my own boys' socks sitting in that rainwater and again, my eyes are filling with tears. Luckily CVS has converted most of their stores to self-checkout counters so I really don't have to explain my inability to breathe in and out like a normal human being to anyone.

Listening to the radio is challenging as certain songs always manage to hijack a relatively calm mind set. "Teach Your Children Well" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sends me reeling. As do "Cat's in The Cradle," by Harry Chapin and "Photograph," by Nickelback. (Stop it Nickelback haters, it's a good song.) Also, anything by Elton John, Cat Stevens, and Coldplay. Even Megadeath probably has its risks. And I can't forget Les Miserables. No matter that I've heard the soundtrack hundreds of thousands of times. It gets me every single time. But here I'm lucky. I can mostly avoid these situations as I've turned into my mother and only listen to talk radio in the car.

Commercials have the same effect. The old Nike spot "If you let me play sports" puts a semi-permanent lump in my throat. And that decades-old Coke commercial where people hold hands and walk over the hills singing? I choke up just thinking about it. A few years back when I was in advertising myself and trying to write commercials that would have one-tenth of the effect of those ads, I would watch them religiously with reverence. Now I watch them with a box of Kleenex.

My point? Having kids has turned me into a cry-baby. And it's just sad.

Yesterday I told my husband the topic of this blog.

Me: "It's about how I cry so much more easily over everything now that I have kids."
Husband: "Is that true?"
Me: "Is what true?"
Husband: "That you cry more?"
Me: "Seriously? You live with me. Yes. It's true."
Husband: "Hmm. You might want to rethink your blog."
Me: "Why???"
Husband: "Because people are going to think you're depressed."
Me: "That's it. I'm not sharing these blogs with you in advance anymore."

Yet, hours later I find myself rethinking this one. Maybe my husband is right. Maybe people will think I'm depressed – and I don't want that. Hormonal? 100%. But not depressed.

But deep down I believe that other women who have also generously donated their emotional stability to childbirth will get what I'm saying. At least to some degree. Or at the very, very least, maybe the part about the animals.

Having babies changes everything. But (abdominal muscles aside) I believe our minds take the hardest hit. Yes, I've become much more outspoken, patient (if you know me, don't laugh) and compassionate, but I've also become emotionally vulnerable in a way I never knew was possible.

CNN. Oprah. A pair of socks. They simply never had this affect on me before I had kids.

But my husband shouldn't worry too much. I don't need to check into a psych ward. (Yet.)

That said, I probably should rent out a room in a nearby plastic bubble.

It's a Life Sentence on Facebook!

What a square

"STOP RUNNING AROUND IN CIRCLES!" I screamed as my boys repeatedly streaked across the living room. (Naked, of course.)
They stopped and looked at me like I was a complete idiot.
"We're not!" they said pointing to the obviously angular 8X10 rug.  "We're running in rectangles."

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Look who's talking

Thursday night my five-and-three-quarter-year-old son got mad at me. Probably because I got mad at him first.
In a huff he yelled, "THAT'S IT!! I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU EVER AGAIN!"
Me: "Hmm. Okay."
J: "I MEAN IT!  I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU FOR TEN WHOLE DAYS!!!"
(Long pause)
J: "STARTING SATURDAY!"
J sat down on couch, arms folded across his chest, glaring at me with his best angry face.
Me to my other son: "Fine. So, R, how was school today?"
R: "Good."
Me: "What did you do?"
R: "I dunno."
Me: "Oh. Ok. Great."
J: "MOMMY....WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO ME??? (Said through clenched teeth assuming, I guess, that if he didn't really move his mouth it didn't really count as talking.)
Me: "I thought you weren't talking to me for ten days."
J: "NO! EIGHT DAYS! STARTING TOMORROW!"
Me: "Oh, okay."
J:  "OH MY GOD! NOW I'M NOT TALKING FOR SEVEN DAYS - STARTING RIGHT NOW!"
Me: "Alright."
J: "I'M SERIOUS!!! I'M NOT TALKING FOR 150 HOURS."
Me: "Fifteen hours?"
J: "NO!!!! WHY AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO ME? I SAID 100 HOURS! BUT IT'S ALREADY BEEN 3 HOURS (five minutes) SO I'M NOT TALKING FOR ANOTHER 2 HOURS!!!
Me: "I'm sorry, when does the "no talking" start?"
J: " I TOLD YOU ALREADY IT STARTS SUNDAY!! SIX HOURS! STOP TALKING TO ME!!!"
(Several minutes of silence)
J:  "MOMMEEEEEE.....WHY ARE YOU IGNORING MEEEEE???"
Me: "Oh, are we talking now?"
J: "NO!!!!!!!! I TOLD YOU I'M NOT TALKING TO YOU ANYMORE!!"
(Confused Pause.)
J: "BUT DON'T IGNORE ME!"
Me: "You can't have it both ways."
J: "OKAY - FINE! I WILL TALK TO YOU IN HALF AN HOUR!!
Me: "Sounds good. I'm looking forward to it."
(Long pause.)
J: "STARTING TUESDAY!!"

Thank god it's Saturday. I think.

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Keeping it real

J: "Mommy can I have another treat?"

Me: "No. Four is plenty."

J: "For real?"

Me: "Yes."

J: "Seriously? For real mommy?"

Me: "Seriously. No more treats tonight."

J: "For real?"

Me: "No. I mean yes. I mean no....no more treats."

J: "Then can I have a treat in my lunchbox tomorrow?"

Me: "We'll see."

J: "For real?"

Me: "Yes, for real."

J: "Can I have two treats in my lunchbox?"

Me: "J, if you don't stop asking for more treats you won't get any."

J: "For real? Not any?"

Me: "Yes, J, for real – if you don't stop asking."

J: "For real?"

Me: "J PLEASE stop....(SIGH) yes, for real."

J: "Mommy..."

Me: "J, I'm warning you."

J: "For real?"

Just the nightly dinner conversation at our house. 

For real.

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Inner Drive

We live in the city and my boys go to school about 13 miles away. Not too far, but not too close either. I drive them there and back and it takes about two hours in the car each day. It's one of the prettiest commutes in the country along Chicago's famed Outer Drive.

Beauty aside, some people question my sanity when I tell them I do this. I've questioned it myself. I mean, I like Billy Joel, but there are only so many times a human being can listen to "Uptown Girl" before renting out a room in an asylum.

Aren't there other options, people ask? Yes. Several. Last year I had a carpool, which was great, I trusted the mom and adored her daughter. Unfortunately, circumstances made it difficult to carpool again this year. There is also a door-to-door van service some people use. And, of course, there is the traditional yellow school bus.

But my boys are just four and five-and-a-half (oops, five and three-quarters....you know how important that three-quarters is.) Much too young, in my opinion, to be schlepped across the city by a driver who may or may not have a meth lab in his basement or a "thing" for Dora and Diego. I know that most people who drive buses are very safe and incredibly nice. I know they are screened, tested and asked to turn over their social security number and a bucket of blood before they are given control of your kids' lives. But still. You never know for sure.

And when it comes to my kids, I like to be sure. At least as sure as possible. I know for a fact that I don't have a substance abuse problem (other than Tylenol – did I mention I have two boys?), I took Oprah's "no phone zone" pledge, I can read the posted speed limits, and my car has functional seat belts that were manufactured sometime AFTER I was born.

Don't get me wrong. Since its invention in 1827, and its last maintenance check in the early 1950s, (I can't help but picture a service guy lubing a bus up with the Tin Man's oil can) the school bus has been a lifesaver for millions of families who work or have six kids to manage. I have many friends myself who put their kids on them. They are all devoted, responsible parents who love their children. But for now, as much as my boys may enjoy the idea the communal commute, (honestly what kid doesn't like being tossed around like a sack of beans while doing 80 down a bumpy highway?) I know it's just not for me.

It's not entirely about the drivers' ability though. When my kids are old enough to fend for themselves in an emergency, and know how to properly use a cell phone, then I'll absolutely, hands-down maybe consider the bus. Because while my boys are very smart little guys, I question their ability to determine if there's an emergency that necessitates using the phone or if they just really, really need to play Angry Birds. As it stands, my youngest routinely dials 911 twice a week (on accident) so I doubt the police would respond anyway should he call them in a true emergency.

I chose to stay home with the boys, and I accept that being their chauffeur is part of my job description. When my position of Mom is up for review in 15 years, I may renegotiate this clause, but I'm pretty sure they have an iron-clad contract prohibiting me from any sort freedom for at least another half century.

But my point, which I hope to get to before I become an Octogenarian, is that I really, truly love driving the boys to and from school. I cherish the time I have with them in the car. Because I know that someday soon having mommy take them to school and pick them up will be as enjoyable as Irritable Bowel Syndrome. They will beg to take the bus or demand to be dropped off 12 blocks away. They won't want me to walk them into class...their friends will do that. And pick up? Well, if I'm allowed that honor, I'll probably get a guitar case shoved in my face instead of a smile.

They won't want to be with me. And I won't be able to stand it.

Not that I don't enjoy down time. Trust me, I spent the first three years of their lives pining for this moment. When they'd be in school and I would be free to read, write or just sit and stare at the walls without someone projectile vomiting on me. And now it's here. Sure, I could use that extra hour in the afternoon for something, but that's not what will make me happy.

Waiting for them in the car line every afternoon makes me happy. Letting them hang around the playground after school to squeeze in an extra hour of "Freeze Tag" makes me happy. Even listening to them talk over one another to the point where they are screaming bloody murder and trying to kill each other across the removable middle seat makes me happy (I keep the Tylenol in my purse).

And so I'm taking advantage of every minute I've got.

When we first interviewed at the school someone told me she'd done the same commute with her two boys every day and that she wouldn't have traded it for the world. Why not? Because, as she put it, "for 18 years I had a captive audience." 

Two words jumped out at me. The first: "Captive."

This means that for at least one whole hour a day I can legally restrain and confine the boys without fear of being featured on Dateline or 20/20. In fact, if I don't keep them belted tightly in place with a five-point harness I could be thrown in jail. So for the better part of one hour they cannot move anything but their limbs, which are out of reach of my hair and each other. Once we get home it's WWF, so you have to understand, this is huge.

In my mind's eye I can picture the man who invented the five-point harness. He's tall, dark and handsome with piercing blue eyes. He has Christopher Reeves' bone structure and red cape. I do realize that this is ridiculous. It was obviously invented by a stay-at-home mom with two small boys.

The second word that got me was "Audience."  For 26 miles my guys have to listen to me – and I to them. I control the music, the windows and the snacks. So if they want a Chocolate Chip Z Bar, they better cough up their entire day from 8 until 2. And they do talk. Some days more than others, but by the end of the ride I have a pretty good idea of what activities they did, who they played with, and that they were the only kids in school (probably the planet) whose mom made them wear a hat and mittens when it was a balmy 25 degrees out. I too learn valuable lessons, like the fact that I shouldn't even think about putting blueberries in their lunch boxes ever again.

When they're older these talks on the ride home will change. For example, they won't exist. The boys will be plugged into the latest and greatest iDevice. Hell, they'll probably be petitioning Honda to make passenger/driver dividers standard in every model.

In the end, everyone has to do what works for them. I'm not here to judge – although I do. (Oh please, show me a mom who doesn't.) And maybe I am a little nuts, but nuts works well for me.

So to answer peoples' question about why I do this drive I say this: Yes, carting my boys back and forth two times a day is a huge effort. It cuts two hours out of my day. It drains my gas tank and tests my sanity. But to me it's worth it. I'm on borrowed time and I know it. Sullen teen angst is just a few miles up the road. I can already see the signs.

Gas mileage be dammed. On my death bed (yes, that's how I think) I will never, ever question that I soaked up every single second of these wonderful, fleeting years.

My tank is full.

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Spar Wars

There are a lot of things I wish I had learned to do as a kid. Play piano. Sing on key. The butterfly stroke. Math.

But most of all, I wish I had learned some sort of self-defense.

As many parents do, I've started living vicariously through my kids – which is why I signed them up for a martial arts class. I want them to have what I never did... the ability to kick someone's ass, or at least defend their own, should a bully ever push them around on the playground or try to steal their lunch. (Which truth be told, isn't that big of a problem as they usually bring half of it home uneaten anyway.)

So...we enrolled the boys in a neighborhood Ju Jitsu class. It's held in a small boxing studio where people go to work out and actually work out – not just prance around in their designer yoga clothes. I'd join myself if I hadn't recently purchased a bunch of really cute Lululemon tops.

My boys are the youngest kids in class by at least two years. My little one looks like an Ewok next to some of the older and much bigger kids. The grown-ups who stand around throwing punches often stop to watch the little kids practicing...always smiling sweetly when my little guys take to the mat. (They obviously have no idea the pain a four-and-a-half-year-old and his older brother are willing to inflict upon each other even in public, civilized places.)

Their teacher, Coach Mack, has a wealth of accomplishments under his black belt. Make that four black bets in Karate and one more in talking smack. He displays the kind of tough, gentle guidance you want in a coach. He expects the kids to listen, look him in the eye and behave. He demands and receives respect, and so naturally, I am thinking about asking him to move in with us. He teaches by example, making minced meat out of his assistant coach much to my boys' amusement. Yet when Coach Mack's daughter takes the mat opposite him, he never takes her down without giving her a little kiss first. This man, who is going to teach my kids how to kill people using only their earlobes, tugs at my heartstrings.

The class is 45 minutes of running, jumping jacks, somersaults, snake escapes, crab crawls, spinning crabs, jumping push-ups, more running and endless drills. I watch the whole thing with envy and consider taking an adult class myself, all the while searching for a chair to sit down in because I'm already tired of standing. The drills are relentless and would send most grown-ups home to bed for the week. Of course it sends my boys running out the door and begging to go onto another activity - family swim. Luckily the adrenaline wears off quickly and by the time dinner is ready 30 minutes later they are falling asleep in their corn.

At the end of class the students spend 15 minutes sparring. They are paired up with equally matched partners. My boys, eager to show the older kids what they are made of, proudly take their places on the mat...holding hands.

And for the first time in two hours, I begin to question my ability to parent.

My oldest son, who, like his mommy, enjoys spending afternoons watching Les Miserables (with Alfie Boe as Jean Valjean of course...do you blame him?) channels his inner Terminator. His baby brother squares his adorable little jaw, gets into position and tries hard not to cry. Which this week, he does.

My heart breaks and swells at the same time. My five-year old knows his stuff. He's using all the moves he just learned and showing no mercy. But seeing my younger son struggle to get out from under him kills me. My good friend Panic moves in and makes herself comfortable in my stomach. What was I thinking signing him up for a class where he has to spar against his big brother like an illegal dog fight? I suddenly feel like Michael Vick's less reasonable little sister. My baby, who was born a month early and already endured one fight for his life shouldn't be battling like this. I hold back tears as I watch them tough it out. I am a mess. A horrible parent. I am certain that Joan Crawford is going to call DCFS on me.

But then my youngest, somehow, wrangles himself out and manages to get a leg up for a moment. And in that brief moment he smiles. Triumph. Not total triumph as his brother takes him down again pretty fast, but it's a victory nonetheless. I exhale and remind myself that this is a good thing they're learning and that they're doing it in a safe, controlled and respectful environment. It's an important and necessary skill: no different from learning to swim or say "no" when someone offers them a hit on their crack pipe.

I tell myself that my youngest son wants to do this. Partially to make myself feel better and also because it's true. He wants to do everything his older brother does. And when he can't, the look on his face as he watches from the sidelines, is devastating. I tell myself that this is for their benefit. Should someone try to mess with either of them, they won't hesitate to use an arm triangle choke from the guard position. (I pay attention in class too.) It's a skill I, and I'm guessing most people out there, wish they had.

When their turn is up they bow to each other, shake hands, and tug the collars of their now stretched-out Gap T-shirts back into some semblance of a shape. Coach Mack high-fives them both and asks my little one to help him coach the next match - boosting his confidence even higher. And mine.

On the walk home my oldest son is puffed up like a proud peacock. Tiny chest thrust forward. His brother is quiet. I expect him to tell me he's not going back.  And I'm fully prepared to let him quit. I'm not a Tiger Mom. Hell, I wouldn't even be allowed in the den. But he surprises me by saying he's excited for practice next week.

"Mommy," he says in that sweet little voice that still cannot pronounce the letter "R" correctly. "Do you know why I was gooder today than Monday? Because I was scared but I still did it."

And I realize that out of all the things I want for my kids, they already have the most important one. A backbone.

Who needs math when you have that?

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Loose Change

I hate change. I know that it's inevitable and often for the best. I know that resisting it is a losing battle. But I just don't like it.

A few examples:
Moving. We are currently in the process of selling our condo. We really need more space. We want to give the boys a backyard and live closer to school and work. I want to move out yesterday. But. There's always a "But." Fast forward to the day when we close this door behind us. I will be in the kitchen hugging a wall, crying, feeling guilt, regret and huge sadness over leaving the first home my husband and I bought together and brought our new babies home to. I will have terrible seller's remorse and under no circumstances will I want to leave. I will have to be pried away with a pliers.

OPH.  This was the restaurant my family owned growing up. A year after my dad died my mom sold it. It had been a massive albatross and she couldn't get rid of it fast enough. I considered selling it a terrorist act. My dad built it from the ground up. It was where I had grown up, worked, had my birthday parties, spent time with my family after school, on weekends and during the summer. It was the place where I first fell in love. (Okay, I was 13 and it was puppy love. But still.) It was my home. Selling it was unfathomable to me. I wanted to box the restaurant up and keep it in my room – not hand it over to someone else who couldn't possibly take care of it like we did. Yet, we sold. My mom was free and entered a less-stressful phase of her life. I entered therapy.

The Sears Tower.  I will never call it anything else. Also, will I not tell my kids it has any other name.


Nail polish. The minute I commit to a new color I regret it. Weeks later, when I remove the chipped and faded remains of "Friar Friar Pants on Fire!" from my toes I actually have a bit of anxiety over it. Maybe it wasn't such a hideous color after all. Maybe I should give it another try. Yes, I'm serious.

But back to my point. (I do have one.)

Last week we discovered that our oldest son, who's almost six, has two loose teeth. His first. He was beyond excited as everyone in his class had already started losing teeth. I made a huge deal of this, hugging him, telling him how exciting this was and that I'd call the tooth fairy immediately to let her know. We did a little happy dance. Then I went into my bathroom and cried.

For the past six years I've wondered when my boys would make certain changes. Start sleeping through the night, potty train, eat like human beings. But losing their baby teeth was never one of those milestones I had looked forward to. I love their tiny, perfect little baby teeth – how their faces look with their little smiles. This change makes me mourn all the little things about them, that soon won't be so little anymore.

Because despite all the hardships of raising young kids, I know that these are the sweet years. And although some days feel like they are 120 hours long, the years fly by way too fast. I want my boys to stay small and snuggly and not turn into teenagers who remind me I'm not cool, slam doors in my face and tell me that I don't understand anything. Losing their baby teeth is the first real physical part of this process and I want to slam the door on this evolution.

That said, I knew enough kids growing up who weren't lucky enough to grow up. Illness took them way too early. So I am grateful every day for the fact that I have two healthy, growing boys. I just wish it didn't all have to change so fast. (Sleep habits aside....I think babies should be sleep-trained before they're allowed to leave the delivery room.) And this change just seems so sudden. I mean, my oldest son didn't start getting teeth until he was close to a year old. So he's only had these teeth for 4 1/2 years. Sure, he has a few cavities and sealants, but overall they are white and straight and chew things like meat and strawberry-flavored Twizzlers just fine. So I don't get the need to expel them so quickly. I mean, if I were to apply this take-and-toss theory to other things, say, furniture, I should have incinerated my couch a decade ago.

But, quite unfairly, I wasn't made CEO of my boys' physical growth. So, my sons' teeth will fall out on their own schedule (not mine), leaving small, temporary gaps in their smiles – and permanent gaps in my psyche. And I realize that the only way I'm going to cope with these changes, will be to change my attitude about change.

But with 38 more loose teeth to lose and puberty on the horizon, perhaps the tooth fairy should leave a little extra change for me as well – to cover the therapy that's going to take.

It's a Life Sentence now on Facebook.

Brotherly Spud

My oldest son has unique taste in television for a five-year-old. One of his favorite shows is Barefoot Contessa. Not exactly classic children's programming, but I'm chalking it up to genetics. My grandfather was in the food business, my dad owned a restaurant and everyone else in my family, and my husband's family, really likes to eat.
Dora and Diego never stood a chance.
So one afternoon both boys were sitting around watching Ina Garten make a pear clafouti when my oldest son became inspired.
He jumped off the couch and shouted, "Mommy, I have a new game!"
I asked, "Yeah, what is it?"
"I'm going to be Ina Garten," he said. "And he (he said pointing to his baby brother) is a potato."

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A load of BS

Whoever designed the front-loading washing machine needs to go back to the drawing board and redesign it so that your NEWLY CLEANED CLOTHES do not fall onto the floor every time you unload them dammit.
Okay, I feel better now.

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FedEx Claus

Over lunch today the boys asked why we don't celebrate Easter. I did my best to explain it to them and made a mental note to join a synagogue and sign them up for Sunday school immediately.
The subject naturally turned to Christmas and my oldest son told me that he really wished he would get presents from Santa Claus.
So I asked them both if they really believed that Santa Claus brought presents to all the girls and boys in one night on his reindeer and sleigh.
My little guy's eyes were huge as he vigorously nodded yes.
Oh, he believes.
But my older son was a little more suspicious.
"No," he said. "I don't think that's what happens."
"What do you think happens?" I asked.
He said, "I think Santa uses FedEx."

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