The Tooth Fairy Doesn't Exists!

“The Tooth Fairy doesn’t exist”, he exclaimed in a tone that was both mocking and shocked all at once. After all he is only five years old and our new toothless friend is already six.

There we were in the cookie isle at Target. We had just met new friends. They could have been potential play-dates. But now I was sure that the mommy wanted to kill me.

I tugged at my son’s arm, opened my eyes wide and smiled. He stared back up at me with a puzzled look on his face as if saying, “What did I do?” I looked over at the Mom and turned my head sideways hoping that the expression of my face was understood. I was so sorry and so embarrassed.

Fortunately her son did not get it. The panic shared by his mother and I went completely over his head and he probably thought that my son was delusional. Now the feeling was mutual.

This interaction was all my fault. I decided long before my son was born that I didn’t want to perpetuate the deception story of Santa Clause. I know! I know! I’m a horrible person. Blah, Blah, Blah. But how could I lie to my son about Santa Clause for years and then expect him to believe that God is real. I just imagined the look of betrayal on his face the day he would find out that I had been lying all of this time. How could he ever trust me again.

I can’t tell you how many people tried to convince me that all kids who believe in Santa Clause turn out all right. They don’t hate their parents and think they are liars. I was raised in Cuba and Santa does not fly over Cuba’s restricted air space.

I kept saying that I guess I would have to reevaluate the decision and cross that bridge when we get to it. Once he was born I figured I had a couple of years more to decide and so I put it off.

Then at 3 years old I was preempted by a concerned mother in law and my son came home from grandma’s house with his first ever letter for Santa.

The deception had begun. It was too late to turn back now. I just couldn’t be the one to tell him the truth now. I have gone along with this now for three years. One of the main reasons that I go along is the fear of an exchange like the one that took place at Target. I have nieces and nephews to worry about and I can’t have my son be “that kid”. The kid that bursts everyone’s bubble. I don’t want preschool mommies calling me each week complaining that my son made their child cry. So we make a list, put out the cookies and we hide the toys.

It still upsets me to think that an imaginary jolly man with a white beard and red suit takes all the credit for the sacrifices mommy and daddy make to buy the toys that bring joy to our little boy’s life. But in the meantime, I can always make him behave by threatening him with the lump of coal and that works like a charm.

But mommies everywhere are warned. The Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny are still fair game.

Cafe con Leche

What do you get when you let a two year old try Cafe con Leche?

A Coffee addicted 5 year old.

We're not really a coffee drinking family.  Cafe con Leche is an occasional treat but a tradition none the less. 

Cuban kids and I suspect quite a few other Hispanic children drink coffee and milk from their baby bottle.  Many Hispanic parents don't see anything wrong with this at all.  They are in fact drinking milk.  "Growing kids need their calcium".

It was not my plan to follow through with this tradition.  I figured when the subject came up I would pretend that chocolate milk was coffee.  It has worked well for one of my best friends.  They are a heavy coffee drinking family but the kids are none the wiser as they sip on their hot chocolate.

Then there was that fateful Saturday morning trip to Grandma's.  I only discovered what had happened from a picture.  A picture of a sweet two year old grinning from ear to ear with bread crumbs on his cheeks and few droplets of Cafe con Leche on his shirt.

The chasm had been crossed.  The point of no return. 

I typically pass for "gringa".  But the way you know I'm Cuban for sure is to put a nice hot cup of Cafe con Leche in front of me and a half a loaf of heavily buttered flat toasted cuban bread "tostada" and see them both quickly disappear.

So it became a Saturday ritual.  The visit to Grandma and the Cafe con Leche.  I wouldn't actually let him drink the Cafe con Leche.  He would only dip his bread, but I would have to rip the coffee cup out of his tiny little hands as he hung on for dear life with mouth open hoping to catch just a drop more. 

He could smell the coffee a mile away.  It was hard for mom and dad to sneak in a cup without him knowing.  "What are you drinking?"  "Nothing Buddy"  I smell coffee.

Little by little it was every other Saturday and then just once a month.  Now it's just once in a while.

With ash brown hair and blue eyes, I guess you could say he could pass for "gringo", but place a steaming cup of Cafe con Leche and Tostada in front of the boy and watch it disappear.

The Cuban in him comes out just like his mommy.  He is 3/4ths Cuban after all and tomorrow is Saturday.

Naptime Sabotage

Most mom's relish those 45 minutes to 2 hours (if your lucky) that their little angel closes his little eyes and fades away to dreamland.  Some Mom's worship this time.  Their entire days revolve around this daily ritual.

I too hoped and prayed for this brief time of rest.  I tried to be consistant, set a restful mood.  I tried forcing him.  Driving around in the car.  I had some successes.  There were times I was lucky and got around 45 minutes. 

But to tell you the truth.  When my son is in my care he never takes a nap.  I will not allow it. 

You see when my son takes a nap something happens.  Someone else steps into his little body while he sleeps.  He falls asleep my sweet little boy and wakes up another thing altogether.  I don't recognize him at all.  It's a classic Jekel and Hide.

As he rouses himself from slumber I would say a quicky prayer that maybe he wasn't possesed today.  I would slowly open the door and try to make his rising a good and wonderful thing.  I would crawl into bed and gently stroke his hair.  "Hi there sunshine."  But it was no use. 

It starts with tossing and turning.  Whining and crying.  He doesn't want me in the room, he doesnt want me to leave.  He doesn't want to get up and he doesn't want to lay down.  Everything is no and the whining is through the roof.  He doesn't want to go to the park and the simplest word makes him cry. 

This after naptime ritual can last as long as the nap.  Truly not worth the 45 minutes of peace during the nap.  It was more like the calm before the storm.

If he starts to doze off I cough, I talk, I'll sing.  I'll tickle. 

There will be no afternoon shut eye on my watch. 

Knock- Knock

Who’s there?

Boy, do little kids love knock-knock jokes!

My son loves them too.

He’s a great audience because he doesn’t really get the concept yet, so he laughs at anything.  Good thing since I only know two.

Last night he started the Knock- knock jokes while we were riding in the car. He says one and then he makes me say one.

When it was my turn I use my usual repertoire:

Knock-Knock
Who is there?
Banana
Banana who?
Knock- knock
Who’s there?
Banana
Banana who?
Knock- knock
Who’s there?
Orange
Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say Banana?

Then there was a twinkle in his eye and I could tell a little light bulb went off. I think he has finally gotten the concept.

So he says:

Knock- knock
Who’s there?
Shriever
Shriever who? (I mean really who or what is shriever?)
Knock- knock
Who' there?
Shriever ( I think he might really be getting it.)
Knock- knock
Who’s there?
Watermelon
Watermelon who?
Watermelon if you want me to say Shriever again.

The three of us erupted got a case of the giggles. So our budding comedian just kept repeating the same joke over and over with different fruit each time.

I guess it's back to the drawing board, as we ended the night with quite a nice fruit salad of knock- knock jokes.