C O N T E X T

May 5, 1996

D O  N O T H I N G

Sometimes I do nothing. Sometimes it's all they let me do, my sattelite children. Activity draws them to me. My two hands become eight. There are fingers in the pudding, knees in the dishwasher, feet on the keyboard, whole bodies in the laundry. My attempt to spin some order out of the randomness in which we dwell, explodes into further chaos. I stop. Retreat into stillness. I assume the position, arms loose, face relaxed, unfocused. I lose my attraction. The children fall away from me, go off to pursue their own adventures, building lego super-cars and warriors, drawing treasure maps and monsters or amassing large armys of plastic figures on the stairs. Eventually the calm sinks in and my brain turns on again. I see myself sitting idle. I think, "Oh, what am I doing? There are dishes to wash, bills to pay, calls to make, floors to sweep, books to study..." I straighten up. The children lift their heads and turn to me....

C O N T E X T

S A N T A ’ S  D E A D

Oh woe is Gus. Santa is dead. Gus crumbles to the floor in tears. And I'm the one who feels bitterly cheated. Not ready to quit this game. Believing this whole scene is totally unnecessary. It never happened to me. Seeing beyond the man in the red suit gave me a glimpse of something more wonderous, magical. I felt lucky. But there's Gus ("I'm doomed."- Gus "It's ruined." - Gus) in tears on the floor, clutching his belly with his eyes screwed tight.

I should have known the gig was up when Gus and Jake kept thanking me for their Santa presents. I was too happy to take heed. "Not me, Santa." I kept saying. Then yesterday, I showed Watt the place where Jake's new tarp/tent was torn. "That's where I had it pinned up?" Watt asked. And Jacob, snake in the grass, struck, bright eyed and triumphant: "Now I know who hung the tent. It wasn't Santa, it was you." Watt and I both too stunned to speak. It wasn't till a few minutes later I managed to explain that Watt had pinned it up after it had fallen down. though it was Santa who had hung it originally. This was cool by Jake. But for Gus it was too late. I left the room to catch my breath, turned around and Gus was on the floor. Watt, looking like he'd been hit by a truck, was saying: "I guess that'll teach you to listen to other people's phone calls."

And I knew what had happened. Earlier in the week Watt had called home from work. I answered and he said, "It just occured to me that we don't have anything for the stockings, do we?" And I said, "Hello? Who's on the phone." Watt said, "It's me." I said, "No, listen, there's someone else." I could hear the noise of all the kids downstairs. "You hear all that noise?" I asked. "Yeah." "Well it's not happening where I am, it's downstairs." But there wasn't any sounds of a listener, no breathing or clicking. Later I found the phone in the cradle, but not hung up. And I hoped he'd put it down before he'd heard too much. But he hadn't.

"I heard you on the phone." Gus wailed, "It's you, not Santa." and wouldn't be consoled. "Why is that so terrible?" I asked. "Didn't you have a good christmas?" (as of this writing 5 days after Christmas Gus has worn his bull's jersey and warm up suit every day). But he would not be consoled. Jacob was feeling alright about the explanation that sometimes Mom and Dad help Santa out, but it wasn't going to hold if Gus kept up the fuss. So I found myself drawing Gus into my lap, alone in the kitchen and whispering things that should never be spoken, explanations that should never be doled out to 7 year olds: "Christmas is an agreement between you and me. I agree to make magic happen and you agree to be thrilled by it. Do you think you can do that? I'm not ready to stop playing this game Gus, please keep playing with me."

In the end I feel bereft. Cheated. Defrocked.