The naughty, the nice, and the threats to North Pole intelligence

by Merri Petrovits // December 22, 2011

The last time I was at Christmas Village in Torrington, I was sitting on Santa’s lap and trying out his sleigh as my mother snapped away a roll of Kodak film. Tonight, I was on the other side of the camera with two of my very own from Santa’s nice list.

On the way there, I feared they would figure the whole thing out. Tyler reads books and assembles Christmas trees practically by himself, while Eva writes the ABC’s and creates Michaelangelo-quality molds out of Play-doh. How would I explain to my budding geniuses why a village in the North Pole, along with its livestock and crew, was relocated for the night to Torrington, Connecticut?

As they journeyed from Santa to the twenty-point reindeer to the elves’ workshop, their eyes were full of wonder. As the night drew to a close, I thought for a moment I was in the clear. That’s when the wonder began to fizzle.

“Mama, why doesn’t it fly?” Eva asked after I snapped a picture of her and her brother sitting in the vintage red sleigh that could fit no more than one adult human body and a grocery bag.

“Come on out, Eva. There are other kids waiting,” I said, thinking it the best way to dodge the question.

“But I don’t want to get out. It didn’t fly yet.”

“That’s because the sleigh doesn’t fly for anyone except Santa. He’s magic.”

She folded her arms and dug her heels into the seat. And from the other side of the sleigh, Tyler had his own issue to resolve.

“How come Santa didn’t know my name?” he demanded.

“He saw a lot of kids today,” I stammered. “Santa gets forgetful.”

“But he watches me every day. He should know my name.”

“Just like he’s watching you both right now?” I asked, then whisked Eva out of the sleigh and carried her toward the parking lot, Tyler trailing a step behind.

“Nooooo! Santa’s sleigh didn’t fly yet!” she persisted, arms and legs flailing. “I want to fly in Santa’s sleigh!”

So much for making the cut on Santa’s nice list. After tonight, I’m positive he revisited his list and updated their statuses. Not for being naughty. They simply know too much.

Who says coal doesn’t make a nice stocking stuffer?

by Merri Petrovits // December 21, 2011

Today my mother-in-law unveiled a row of spectacular stockings she made for everyone in our family. Ten-plus hours of work went into hand-crafting each intricate design—and Eva promptly put them on and stomped all over the house.

Has anyone ever tried to explain to a three-year-old why something that looks and feels like a sock can not be worn on the feet? An explosive tantrum ensued.

Here’s the bad news for Eva. With Osama, Gaddafi and Kim now out of the picture, I imagine Santa’s workshop may be experiencing a coal overstock, and there’s plenty of room for it in her stocking. The good news for us? We’re building our own little power plant before we get hit by the next nor’easter. Operation Fuel complete!

Every man needs an easy chair. Unless, of course, there’s an ulterior motive.

by Merri Petrovits // December 20, 2011

This morning Doug appeared in our kitchen covered head to toe in camouflage.

“What are you wearing?” I asked, although I wasn’t much surprised. Lately his favorite new pastime has been sitting in the woods, stalking deer and becoming one with nature. (At least, that’s his version. My version is that he’s finding escape from the simultaneous screaming of three unruly children.)

“It’s Realtree,” he said proudly. “This stuff is the best. I can sit right there in the woods, and no one will ever see me!”

“Maybe that’s a blessing,” I said, but he didn’t pick up on my fashion critique. He was too eager to catch a glimpse of the “rutting,” where bucks lock horns over their desired doe. Evidently, this mating ritual was scheduled to take place right in our backyard.

There was one bit of truth to what he said—it was now next to impossible to find him in the woods. At one point, he reported, I was looking right at him while calling him from the deck for about ten minutes. I didn’t find this nearly as amusing as he did.

Later in the day, he presented me with an outdoors magazine opened up to a page with camouflage furniture. “If you’re looking for something to get me for Christmas, this is my chair,” he announced. He even jotted down the item number for me.

“Easy there, Davy Crockett. I thought we agreed, no new furniture until the last kid is potty-trained. Anyway, aren’t you getting a little too old to be writing lists for Santa?”

But then, I bit my tongue. Every father deserves a nice easy chair—one that’s not covered with permanent marker and five years of spit-up and cookie crumbs under the cushion. I thought about how in the past hour, I’d asked him to do something every ten minutes. “Doug, can you pick up Eva’s prescription? Doug, can you help me find Tyler/Eva/Anna’s other sock/shoe/barrette/mitten? Quick, Doug, Anna’s headed right up the stairs! ”

I looked at him, still camo-clad, then looked at the picture of that chair. I thought of how easily he blended in with the woods when I went out looking for him. I looked from him to that chair again. If he sat in it, he’d virtually disappear. And suddenly, his motive became clear.

“Wait a minute. Are you trying to hide from me?” I demanded.

“Will you listen to that? I think I hear antlers rubbing against a tree!” And with that, he faded back into the great outdoors.

Some gifts are thoughtful. As it turns out, others are downright premeditated.