Fixing

I'm a fixer by nature.

I am certain that we could examine my life and come up with all sorts of psychological reasons that I am so compulsively compelled to nurture, caretake, and solve problems but the end result is still the same: I'm a fixer. I like the work of it, having something to do that is of service and purpose. I don't need the credit, just the opportunity.

That sounds wrong...I'd be happy if there were no need (thus, no opportunity) for fixing in this world. But, let's face it: We live in a world replete with wounds...visible and not...and so, while those wounds exist, I will fix.

A very wise and trusted advisor has invested a good bit of energy and effort over the past several years to help me see that I cannot fix the entire world, that I have the right to fix myself, and that I even have the responsibility to sometimes say no to demands on my time and energies. For the most part, I've learned to be more judicious with my efforts...to take the time to nurture myself and to not feel guilty about that.

Sometimes, though, there are situations which threaten to undo much of that growth. Situations which take my heart, rip it to shreds, and leave me consumed with the need to make it all better. Situations which leave me internally wailing and screaming with frustration because no matter what I do there is nothing I can actually do to fix it.

There is nothing more frustrating to a fixer than to be completely helpless to a situation, to be entirely unable to fix a thing about it but to want nothing more than to make it all better, to be able to wave a wand (or find the words or create a solution) and make the wounds or pain in front of us disappear.

There have been a few situations like this in my life. When I was told that my marrow recipient was, indeed, terminally ill I shattered inside and wished with all my being that I could trade places with her to spare her family the agony of losing their beloved wife, mother, daughter, and sister. I wished that for years, long after she was gone. Even still, sometimes. When I first met my godson in Honduras...a 4 year old who weighed 13 lbs 8 oz because there hadn't been enough food to feed him so that he could grow. Holding his starved, fragile, weak, deprived little body I felt smaller than I knew was possible. I could be part of the team that loved and fed this one child...but what of the millions more I could never help? Irrationally, it felt like a personal failure. I would watch this breathtakingly emaciated child begin to grow again, to smile again, and when my heart would leap with joy at his progress it would also sob in frustration at all the children who would never get what he got: A home. Food. Love.

Most recently, the situation that leaves me broken and without any answers is one that has left many others in the same dizzying spinning place as myself.

Ryan has cancer, again.

He's only 7 and he has been in the hospital since May 10...more than 9 weeks now and almost all of that in the PICU.

If you've ever loved someone going through treatment for cancer, you know that cancer is terrible awful wretched heartbreaking a mother fucking bitch. (warning to parents: this blog may contain inappropriate language.)

There's nothing I can do to fix this. I cannot take the beast away. I cannot offer his parents several different solution scenarios to try out, the way I usually can for parents struggling with a parenting dilemma because cancer is way beyond "parenting dilemma". I cannot take away his tumors, one of which has taken up residence inside his spinal cord and left him unable to feel or move from the midchest down. I cannot take away the unending pain he is in...but if there were a way for me to feel it so he didn't have to, I would. I don't say that out of altruism, I say that because, quite selfishly, it would be easier to feel his pain myself than it is to watch him feel it, easier to be in pain myself than to be helpless in the face of his agony. When he vomits from chemo and radiation, I can hold a basin and wipe his face and cradle his head and murmur soothing words...but I can't stop his suffering. I can't share it. I can't even ease it. More often than not, just as I am about to truly break it is Ryan who fixes it...an impish grin, a giggle, a joke...his ability to mentally and emotionally rally around and just be a boy reminds me to focus on the small successes, on the sparkle that exists in every darkness.

I don't know how his parents stand it, every day. They are two of the strongest people I know simply for the fact that they are still coherent and upright. I don't know how they do it. I'd do anything so that they didn't have to, so that they had their laughing running dancing boy back, healthy and strong. They suffer with their son, and there is nothing that can be done about that, either.

This past week what I could not fix was a massive, raging, infection that has ravaged Ryan's defenseless system. Chemo has left him without much of an immune system and the infection ran rampant, wreaking havoc on his already embattled little body. With his blood pressure and temperature skyrocketing, the decision was made to sedate him and put him on a ventilator so that his energy can go entirely to fighting the infection.

Seeing a child you love on a ventilator is a sucker punch that will knock you to your knees.

When Ryan's mom texted me to tell me about this new development I asked her what I could do because I was at a loss. I needed to fix it for them, but knew I could not. She told me that what she needed from me was my prayers..."massive prayers."

Have you ever come up with an idea that you know didn't come from you? My faith based friends know what I am talking about, my non faith based friends just think this sort of thing has a diagnosis behind it.

Sometimes, we are merely instruments of the Spirit.

See? You either know exactly what I mean or you think I need heavy medication.

I've been used by the Spirit before. Sometimes it has been an outpouring of advice and wisdom that just pours forth, without any actual conscious effort from me. Sometimes it is a sudden very clear plan for something. When it happens, I feel different. It is hard to explain...if you felt it, you'd know it for what it is. It is a quiet and joyful peace, a secure knowing. It comes from something far greater than self.

There is a Fixer who can fix what we cannot, and that Fixer often asks us to be His hands.

A clue for me that I am just an instrument, other than that peaceful knowing, is that my heart leaps eleventy twelve thousand miles ahead of my brain. I am led by impulse, not a thought out plan.

So it was when I found my fingers typing out event invites for a prayer gathering for Ryan to be held in the hospital chapel. Without actual thought I just knew the time, place, and people. I knew the people I invited would invite others. I sent out invites, sat back, and realized with complete panic that I had no idea what I was doing.

Faith and prayer are an integral part of who I am but I am not a prayer or worship leader. I have never been comfortable in that role or even been called to that role and so I've never filled that role. And now, here I was with an event in less than 24 hours and because my heart had leapt ahead of my brain.

As amazing grace would have it, I have many friends in ministry. They are gifted and generous and compassionate and kind. Two of them were also willing, at a moments notice, to plan and prepare a prayer service complete with music, readings, reflections, and prayers.

That's how it happens when we allow ourselves to be His hands. What could be a ridiculous disaster falls magically, perfectly, effortlessly together. We have to allow self to step back, get out of the way, and reach His hands out. Sometimes, when we want most to be the fixer we have to hand the fixing over to someone else, to something else.

Oh, how sweet the sound to hear 80+ voices raised in prayerful song in that tiny hospital chapel that we used without asking permission. Standing room only, every heart as desperate as my own to heal this one child. It is a safe bet that every person who showed up wants, as badly as I do, to fix this for Ryan and his family.

And because not one of us is a miracle worker, we joined together to ask God, the one miracle worker we know, to fix what we cannot. We raised our shouts to the Lord, who can heal our every ill, and knew we were joined by hearts from all over the globe in one prayer: Heal this child, and hold his parents up.

Maybe sometimes being a fixer means knowing you can't fix it and asking the one who can to take over.

Ryan is stable for now, still sedated, still on a vent, still trying to get rid of the infection.

I can't fix that.

But I know who can.

Just Another Day

Some days I actually manage to appear competent, even skilled, at my job. Others? Not so much. Last Friday was of the "not so much" variety.

I thought I was getting a jump on what was to be a busy day...I brought my laundry to work (note to nanny employers: Let your nanny bring her laundry. Best. Perk. Ever. She's doing yours anyway.) I even got it started right away so it would be mostly done by the time the cleaning lady arrived.

Remember the laundry. I got distracted with our day. Dadboss took Little Litigator to soccer camp. I laid out clothes for the twincesses and commenced a 2 hour search for Twincess A's sandals.

You'd think that since we actually have a bench by the front door with baskets in it specifically for the children's shoes that I might usually find the children's shoes in those baskets. This has not been the case this summer and I am often left searching for shoes that didn't get put away while Mommy and Daddy were in charge. On one notable occasion, the missing shoes were in Mommy's car. At Mommy's office. I've learned to plan extra time into our day plans for unexpected necessities, such as a trip to Mommy's office to retrieve those shoes from her car. On this day, knowing Mommy was in court, a text or call to mommy was not possible to determine the location of the missing sandals. So, we searched.

I'll admit up front I got a little cranky with a particular barefooted twincess who could not, for the life of her, remember where her sandals were and who tearfully insisted she'd put them away the night prior.

After two hours of pulling apart every drawer, closet, and storage basket in the house I gave up and handed the shoeless child a pair of socks and her tennies. "It cwashes wif my dwess!" Yes, but you know what will clash more? Tetanus from stepping on some random metal object in your bare feet. Besides, I've already wasted most of the morning and don't have time for an ER visit...we need to get to Target.

As we raced around Target, Twincess E decided that our fellow shoppers ought to be given the privilege of seeing how her dress lifts and twirls when she spins. As she did so I saw a flash of bare bottom and realized, to my complete horror, that she had given herself the privilege of a day off from underwear. I was a bit confused because I knew I'd put out two pairs of panties with their clothes and both pairs were gone when they were finished dressing.

I tried to be cool and calm about it, so instead of screeching and running out of there with her tucked under my arm and wrapped in a stolen blanket to shield her little baby hoo-hah from the pedophiles with cell phone cameras that I just know are hanging around, I restrained my horror and casually asked, "Em, where are your underwear?"

She lifted her dress, flashing our fellow shoppers once again. "Oh," she said cheerfully as she waggled her naked little hips, "I'm not wearing any. But don't worry, Tara. I told Abby to put on both pairs just in case I changed my mind."

Well, at least she had a plan and foresight. And, the superpower to make her sister obey because her sister was, indeed, rather unhappily wearing both pairs of panties.

A quick trip to the bathroom remedied the situation and we were on our way to pick up their brother from soccer camp.

Now, it should be noted that the day previous I had told the children that we'd have a picnic lunch and then go to the zoo after soccer. I'd amended that plan due to the incredibly hot day predicted and eased their sorrow over the lost zoo trip with the promise of a trip to a local splash pad instead.

We arrived to soccer early (early is so not normal for us) so I shot off a quick text to their mother to let her know that Twincess A's sandals were lost and that I'd spent most of the morning looking for them.

Her quick reply: "They are in the garage."

Okay, for real? Not only did they not get put away, but you know where they are and somehow managed to think either A. that I'd magically know the shoes were in the garage where we never go to play or B. that we'd not need her shoes even though we had plans to be out and about all day? Are you kidding me? Have the last FOUR TIMES we've been unable to find shoes helped you at all to see that maybe, JUST MAYBE, it makes sense to have the children put their shoes away in the spot you purchased just for that reason?

It took me several minutes to figure out how to reply to that without the words "I quit." After all, I need my paycheck to pay my bills. Plus, I'm rather fond of the children.

While I came up with a friendlier and more appropriate reply, my allergies took over. Sneezing, boogery, itchy, swollen eyes allergies...and it became pretty obvious that the promised trip to the splash pad wasn't going to be a wise decision if this nanny wanted to be able to actually, oh, see the children. Or breathe, at all.

The children took that news somewhat stoically (if near hysteria pitch voices wailing "But what else will we doooooooo!!!" counts as "stoically").

We ate a quick lunch at home and I checked my phone for movie options (thank you, flixster). Now, I would have dearly loved to take them to see Cars 2, but their father already claimed it as his right, thus leaving me to have to go see it as the creeper-grown-up-at-an-animated-film-with-no-kids-in-tow. "You," he'd told me with a sinister and delighted grin which revealed his knowlege of my distaste for most Jim Carrey films, "can take them to see Mr. Popper's Penguins." Awesome (<---not really).

We raced up to Great Lakes Crossing...after stashing socks for all in my purse because you know as well as I do that there is NO WAY we are going to get out of this mall without visiting the socks-required play area. As we raced up there (obeying, of course, all traffic laws which is more than I can say for some people on the roads that day...not gonna mention any names but I'm lookin' at you Mr. Exits-the-freeway-from-the-left-lane-without-signaling-or-slowing-down) I realized there was no way we were going to make the showtime for the penguin flick. Shame. (<---not really). I vaguely recalled that another child appropriate film would begin 45 minutes later, so I wasn't worried.

That is, I wasn't worried until I pulled all three children out of the car and it dawned on me that 1. I have no cash and 2. I'm pretty sure my card isn't in my wallet but is, instead, on my coffee table at home, 40 minutes away. I verified this by checking my wallet.

Bad, bad, irresponsible nanny. Are you keeping count? First, we aren't going to the zoo. Then, we aren't going to the splash pad. Then, we aren't going to the intended movie. THEN, we aren't going to ANY movie. That's a crapload of disappointment and broken promises for three small children to take. I broke the news to my tiny people and there was a mutually horrified silence. I could see their brains whirring back to the last time I didn't have my card.

Last March. Same Mall.

We'd come to have a birthday lunch for the Little Litigator at the Rainforest Cafe and, after our merry meal, I'd realized I was without any form of payment. Nothing. I had to leave my driver's license with the manager, haul all three children back to their house where my card was in the washing machine, having been left in the back pocket of my jeans from the day before. Then we booked it back to the mall and, just as we re-entered, Twincess A proceeded to vomit twelve times her body weight in puke. All over the mall entrance (inside and out), all over herself, and (most disgustingly) all inside my purse. And we still had to go back in to pay our lunch bill and retrieve my license.

And you know how I know for sure that's what their horrified little selves were thinking? Because after a few moments Twincess A broke with silence with a very sweetly solemn and reassuring, "It's okay Tara, I'm not gonna frow up this time."

Well, I guess that's good then, right?

I realized I had very few options at this point. Even if we went all the way back to my place to get my card, we'd still miss the movie at the mall. I checked flixster and saw that the penguin film was playing even a later showtime right near home, giving us enough time to get the card and get to the theater. A little over a half hour later we are nearing the exit closest to my home when I remembered that the totebag on the floor of my car holds, among other things, my checkbook. It probably would have been easier on our day had I remembered this at the mall, where there's a branch of my bank nearby, where I could have written a check for cash.

Very much humbled and self irritated, I hit the bank closest to my place, got cash, and made it to the theater in time to see Jim Carrey get hit in the nads, make poop jokes, and dance with antarctic fowl. Of course, before we got to our seats I managed to spill both pop AND buttered popcorn all over a new shirt, but that's just par for the course on some days.

Have you seen this movie? If not, *Spoiler Alert* I'll warn you that the closing credits scroll along to that familiar-and-I-wish-I-didn't-still-know-most-of-the-words hip hop hit of my later high school years, "Ice, Ice, Baby". As I completely mortified myself with a compulsive need to sing along (Because who, really, can hear "Stop!" without chiming in on "Collaborate and listen!" It's like Snap, without crackle and pop...you can't have one without the others) Little Litigator got his groove thing on and delightedly asked, "Tara, can this be my new favorite song?"

In a word? NO.

I doubt he's ever going to ask for permission on something like that again, but I am eternally grateful for the veto power he gave me on this one because no way no how am I going through the whole summer with a 6 year old singing "Will it ever stop? yo, I don't know..." or "To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal" Just. Not. Gonna happen.

By the time we got back to their house, their mom was home, watering the lawn peacefully. She handed me my paycheck as we filled her in on our ridiculous day. "I bet you're glad it's Friday, huh?"

I smiled and nodded, but what I was really thinking was "I don't care what day of the week it is, I'm just glad it is OVER because I can't screw up anything else now."

I helped the kids into their swimsuits so they could run through the sprinklers, made sure I didn't run anyone over on my way out of the driveway, and headed to the bank on my way home.

And realized, at the bank, that all the laundry I'd so responsibly and efficiently gotten done first thing in the morning was still in the laundry room. At work.

Awesome. (<---Again, not really.)

A Nanny Diary of my OWN

FYI: I originally wrote this...rant...in August, 2007, on myspace (Good Lord, who uses that anymore??) when the film version of "The Nanny Diaries" was released. This subject has come up in conversation quite a bit lately, with regard to the nanny depicted in the remake of the film "Arthur", and I promised some nanny friends I would find it and post it for them to see. So, apologies for the flashback, but it still holds true.

Okay, well maybe I don't really have a Nanny Diary, but I do have a rant or two about the movie.

Now, let me first admit that when I first read the book, oh so many years ago, I was somewhat unimpressed. This was largely because I don't work for families like the X family. I usually work for NORMAL people who want me to work WITH them, not be the parent so they don't have to be.

Since I've read the book, I have had the "good fortune" to encounter...even work for...parents rather similar to those depicted in the book. I mean, all employer families have their quirks and things to complain about. I know I've certainly found plenty to complain about. There was the family who "forgot" to pay me every week so I'd have to keep asking for my check, then the next week they'd be irritated that they had to pay me again. There are the families who are never, ever home on time and seem to think that it is no big deal to assume that I'm always available to work late because why on earth would a nanny have anything else to do? There are the families who promise me two weeks paid vacation a year and then are horrified when I actually take a few days...and then demand that *I* be the one to find their backup childcare even though they assured me at my interview that they had other options for my days off. There was the family that not only expected me to work major holidays, but to travel out of state with them for those holidays and ignore my own personal traditions. There was the family where I would come in some mornings and find liquor bottles still open on the counters in a trashed kitchen and everyone still in bed long past time to get up and ready to get out the door. There was the family where I had to handwash the mom's...personal...clothing items. There have been many families where I was given a list of rules to enforce...and then found that mom and dad didn't enforce them themselves. (And really, if you are going to insist that I only allow your children to eat organic, healthy food it really does make it difficult for me...and them...to follow that when you take them to McDonalds every time the meal prep is your responsibility. Likewise if you tell me your toddler isn't supposed to have his paci except at bedtime but you pop it in his mouth the moment you walk in the door.) There was the family that didn't tell me until the last moment (as they were walking out the door, luggage in hand) that mom and dad were going out of town for a few days and I was expected to stay with the kids that whole time. Then, of course, there was the dad who showed me his bag of sex toys and offered to share them with me.

Oh, I could go on!

But all those families had their good points, too. Like the family that offered me some free days off when I called off my wedding. Or the mom who spent hours researching digital cameras so she could surprise me for my birthday with one that had the exact features I wanted. Or the family that took me to Bali for two weeks...paid my whole way, gave me spa treatments, paid me to go...and then hardly asked me to work when we were there and spent a good part of the time buying me drinks at the pool bar. Or the mom who raced home early, without warning, on three different occasions within 4 months so I could attend the births (as the doula) of two of my nephews and the daughter of a friend. Or the many families who have invited me to spend holidays with them in their homes because I'm "family" and because they know I don't generally spend many holidays with my own family. Or the family that asked me if they could name me their children's guardian in the will.

But can I just rant for a minute about this freaking movie?

I understand that movies and their literary counterparts are bound to differ. The book is always better. But why change key ingredients of the story, particularly when some of those key ingredients are EXACTLY the POINT of the STORY?

Part of the appeal, at least among the nanny community, of The Nanny Diaries is/was that the nanny in question was a REAL NANNY. Now, granted, she was a grad student working as a nanny to help get through school, and the inherent implication was that when she graduated with her Master's that she'd move on to something different. But that's pretty accurate for a large percentage of the professional nanny population, so that's okay. At least she knew the score. She knew kids, she knew nannying, and she knew parents. Even for those of us who never worked for a family like the X family, we got the nanny thing in the book because at some point we all recognized ourselves.

But the movie? They CHANGED THAT. In the movie, she's a recent college grad with a business degree who strikes out in her first real world job interview. She stumbles into the nanny job opportunity, which she doesn't really want, and decides to take it while she figures out who she is.

She's clueless as to nannying and childcare. She learns, of course, that's the adventure of the film.

But COME ON. Couldn't we please JUST ONCE get a film about a nanny that actually depicts a REAL NANNY? Movies that center around nannies tend to have limited themes. We have movies like "Uptown Girls" and, now, "Nanny Diaries" that depict modern gals with no other option and no skills whatsoever who stumble into jobs taking care of extraordinarily wealthy children with parents who'd rather not be bothered with their offspring. These hapless girls fall in love with their charges (which, in the Nanny Diaries, is claimed to be the number one wrong thing to do!) and learn their jobs on the fly. The basic point in such films is this: Taking care of a child is so easy that any unskilled, untrained idiot can do it well, and probably better than a parent. Then we have the movies like "Mary Poppins" and "Nanny McPhee". Now, I'll admit, I LOVE these movies because they are fun and fanciful. But they kind of set the bar impossibly high. I mean, both those practically perfect nannies have magic skills. Like, real magic, with which they enchant, charm, and discipline their children. Do you have any idea how much easier my daily work would be if I could snap my fingers and thus make all the toys put themselves away??? I've tried and I still can't master that one. Plus, both those nannies stay for such a brief while and then, once things are they way they want them, they leave. The reality is that most nannies aren't going to leave unless the job SUCKS. Not when the job is finally all settled in perfectly! Then there are the charming tales a la "Sound of Music" wherein yet another inexperienced caregiver arrives to make all things well...and to fall in love with the single father. In some films, he's not even single. And, finally, my favorite (note the sarcasm), films like "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle" wherein the nanny isn't really a nanny, but some psychopath bent on causing grave harm to the parents, the children, or both.

I'm a real nanny. I deliberately and consciously chose this as my career. It's not something I fell into because I lacked any other skills, qualifications, or opportunities. It's not a stop-gap until I can find a "real job." It's no longer the way I'm paying my way through college, because I finished with college more than 11 years ago. It's not a stepping stone for experience so I can go on to "something better." I'm not magical. I can't slide up bannisters, have tea parties in midair, tap my cane and confine children to their beds, or fly sedately with my umbrella in hand. I was never a nun and I can't play the guitar. I have one, I just can't play it. I am not interested in trying to seduce any of the dads I've worked for because I find unavailability in a man HIGHLY unattractive. And, despite what some may want to think, I'm not a psychopath.

I'm a real nanny. I have almost always worked a schedule of 50+ hours a week. I change diapers and I potty train. I read stories, teach ABC's, and teach them to read on their own. I kiss owies, and apply bandaids even just as a fashion statement for a 3 year old who thinks that bandaids are cool. I can't do magic, but I can pretend we live in a magical palace and create an imaginary world in which to play for a rainy afternoon. I hear secret wishes, dreams, and fears. I turn cranky mornings into crazy dance parties full of laughter and groovy moves. I teach parents how to really baby and toddler proof their homes, and how to properly install and use their carseats. I cajole stubborn eaters into trying new foods, and I plan and prepare a nutritious well balanced diet that takes into account allergies, preferences, and mercurial toddler moods. I sing childhood favorites 50 times in a row and convincingly pretend that I am thrilled to sing it again. I organize toy rooms and convince preschoolers that cleaning up and maintaining that order is really fun. I get babies on a napping routine that helps them sleep through the night. I read parenting books and magazines by the truckload. I know how to treat/handle/identify colds, the flu, rotavirus, strep throat, pink eye, diaper rash, blocked tearducts, cradle cap, diarrhea, constipation, colic, reflux, ear infections, Fifths disease, Hand/Foot/Mouth, speech and/or language delays, developmental delays, mono, substance abuse, and teen pregnancy. I reassure parents that their infant/toddler/preschooler/grade schooler/teenager is not abnormal and that this, too, shall pass. I can tell them whether or not their baby/child is within normal developmental ranges and whether or not they need to seek a professional opinion or intervention. And, if those interventions are needed, I can...and have...helped implement those at home. I know where all the indoor play areas are...free and not free...within a 15 mile radius of where I'm working. I even know of some that are farther away. I know where all the shady playgrounds are, too, so that little legs don't get burned on sun-heated slides. I know where the best places are for swimming lessons, gymnastics, and dance classes. I know who to call to sign your kid up for soccer or baseball or swimteam or basketball or hockey. I hug, tickle, snuggle, comfort, and play. I am privy to far more private and intimate information than most people know about their bosses/employers because I work in my employers home. I know what her bad housekeeping secret is (and admit it, we all have at least one!) and I know exactly what both of them think of each others parents. And of each other, for better or worse. I hold someone else's children close in my heart and I decide that I'm willing to lay down my life for these sweet, precious little souls. I may or may not be appreciated for any of this by the parents, and frustrating as that is I also know that there is nothing that shows appreciation more than a child who trusts me to make everything alright, to make everything safe, to make their world a place full of love and fun. The baby who melts into me as she falls asleep, the baby who offers big wet slobbery grinning kisses, the little one who won't let me leave without a high five or a hug, the peanut butter kisses and jelly fingered hugs, the letter from a child that says "I wish you were my sister"...these are the usual signs of appreciation I get and I wouldn't trade those for anything. There's something very humbling when a parent entrusts their child to my care, day after day, and it is a responsibility I will never take lightly.

I'm a real nanny. I'm a member of both the Association of Professional Nannies and the National Association for Nanny Care. Someday, maybe I'll join the International Nanny Association. Yes, we have professional organizations! We even have professional training schools, professional conferences, and professional ongoing education. There's even a National Nanny Recognition Week, but Hallmark has yet to acknowledge that one.

I'm a real nanny. By choice. By profession. I don't need a "real job". I HAVE a Real Job.

Where's the movie that depicts that?

True Detroit

When I say "Detroit", what's the first thing that comes to mind?

If you're not from here I'm going to bet that you thought something along the lines of "murder capital", "gangster mayor who went to jail", "crime ridden", "gang violence," or even...as one online acquaintance put it years ago, "post-apocalyptic hellhole."

If you're not from here, I'm going to guess that the only reasons you'd come here are for business or to visit someone you know. You might wonder why anyone admits to being from here. You also might wonder why so many people who live in the suburbs proudly consider themselves "Detroiters" rather than specifically identifying which suburb they vote in. You wonder that because you don't know the true Detroit.

If you're from here, you know better.

Does the D have crime? Yes. Show me a city that doesn't. Show me a major metropolis that does not have a section you'd avoid at almost all costs. What's that? You can't find one to show me? Exactly. Did we have a mayor who went to jail? Yes. So did Washington DC...and they re-elected him when he was released. I highly doubt you'll see that kind of mayor reelected in Detroit. Are there gangs and violence in the D? Yes...as is true of everywhere, even in the suburbs. Post apocalyptic? Honey, I used to live in a third world country, don't tell me about post apocalyptic hellholes!

None of those negative things you might think about Detroit are unique to this city. More importantly, those things aren't what truly defines Detroit and her people.

Let me tell you what does.

What defines Detroit is the sense of community, the spirit here that says "We aren't done, and we can do better, knock us down and we'll come back stronger because we're in this together." It is evident in the community gardens in the city, in the partnerships between city and suburban schools and churches, in the countless tiny grassroots organizations that serve specific needs in the community. It is evident in the Olde English D logo of the Detroit Tigers, a logo that has taken on representing more than a baseball team, it has taken on representing pride in being from Detroit. It is the spirit that reaches out and celebrates itself among strangers who are united in only one thing: Being Detroiters.

I could list dozens of extraordinary, wonderful, special things about this city. Places to go. Organizations. People. Things that began here. Firsts that occurred here. But what spoke to me most recently, most powerfully about the true Detroit was an unexpected showing of true Detroit spirit at a Detroit Red Wings game last week.

As a nanny, I often offer my charges a choice for their birthday gift: A traditional present or a shared experience, a "just you and me" date. I have yet to have a child choose the brightly wrapped toy. This past month, when Little Litigator approached his 6th birthday, I gave him that choice and he chose the outing. He even knew what he wanted to do: Go to his first Detroit Red Wings game.

I found a coupon code for cheaper tickets, cleared a date with his parents, and made our plans. For weeks he counted down the days, checked and double checked that his Wings jersey was clean and in his drawer, ready to be worn. The day of the game, he willingly took a nap because he knew he was going to be out late on a school night. (I apologized to his kindergarten teacher in advance for the tired boy I knew she'd have the next day...) We made a poster together that read "My First Wings Game" and he insisted I decorate it with red stars and curlicues.

Of course, as the title of this blog suggests, nothing in my life goes according to normal and we had some serious snafus when it came to printing out the tickets I'd ordered online...snafus that set us back over an hour. We didn't get downtown until after the game had started and by then Little Litigator was starving. Our plan had been to park at the Fox, eat at Hockeytown Cafe, and take the shuttle to the game. When I pulled into the parking garage I asked the attendant if the shuttle was still running. She didn't think so, but then she saw my near tears frazzled self, and she saw the little boy in a carseat holding tightly to that poster and she said, "Let me call the restaurant for you and ask." She did...and, for the record, the shuttle runs continuously throughout the game. That lovely attendant then pointed me to a spot directly in front of me...one marked "Reserved"...and said, "Honey, you take that spot right up front and get that little boy to the game!" Detroit spirit, there.

Our waitress put us right where we could see the game on the big screen, advised me on dishes that were fast to fix, and made sure we got our food quickly. When we were done and paid, the hostess called the shuttle for us and told us to wait inside where it was warm, she'd watch for it for us. More spirit.

And then, we got to the game. Little Litigator carried his sign in such a way that it was easily read by people we passed as we climbed the stairs into Joe Louis Arena. If you haven't been there lately, there is a huge section of those stairs roped off for smokers. All it took was one smoker to see that poster and to read it aloud. "My First Wings Game...hey, look, it's the kid's first Wings game!" The applause began. People clapped, they cheered, they shouted "Have fun, buddy!"

Little Litigator turned to look up to me, his eyes wide with wonder, and gasped, "It's like they know I'm a rock star!"

What a way to welcome a kid to the game, eh?

That welcome continued as we entered the Joe, as we walked towards our section, and as we climbed more stairs to our seats. People high-fived him, congratulated him, some just grinned and nudged their companions as we passed by. We took our seats and inwardly I groaned at the lack of child aged people in our section and the abundance of young adult hockey fans with adult beverages in their sweaty grasps. I instantly worried about what expletives his perked little ears might overhear and how I would explain those to his parents when they came flying out of his mouth at some inopportune moment. I focused on getting a wiggly overexcited 6 year old out of his coat and hat and into his seat when a most extraordinary thing happened: Detroit spirit settled over us and wrapped us in its embrace.

A young, professional looking man sitting in front of us and several seats down saw Little Litigator's sign. "For real?" he asked him. "It is really your first game? Congratulations, I hope you have fun!" They high fived. The man spoke to his girlfriend, then they both got up. I presumed they were going to get drinks, perhaps use the restroom. Very shortly, they were back. "Here, this is for you." This stranger...this fellow Detroiter who never shared his name with us...had nothing with him but one of those giant foam fingers that fans wave in the stands.

What kind of person gets up during a game and buys a souvenir for a kid he's never met? A Detroiter, that's who.

Maybe you know a kid like the Little Litigator...but he's not shy. He is particularly not shy about sharing his delight and enthusiasm. Every molecule in him radiates his mood and his excitment is enough to make you smile...even laugh...just observing him. He's contagious. He was more fun to watch than the game was.

It's a good thing he is contagious because the Wings blew big time. REALLY big time. As the St. Louis Blues racked up goal after goal, I kept waiting for expletives to fly from the fans around us. None did. Maybe they weren't the kind of people who use that kind of language, but I suspect that much of it was in deference to the tiny little fan waving a foam finger and a poster announcing that it was his first game.

The horrific scoreboard didn't seem to bother Little Litigator. He quickly figured out that dancing kids got noticed and filmed for the jumbotron, so every timeout and every break he stood up and boogied his little heart out, waving his poster and hoping he'd see himself on the screen. I sat next to him and laughed. Another person sitting near us saw me snap a photo of him and called to me..."Let me take a picture of the two of you," she said. "You two are the cutest things I've ever seen". I am forever grateful for that fellow Detroiter...I take hundreds of photos of my charges, but have very few of me with them. I like to think that Detroit spirit whispered in that woman's heart and told her that we'd love a together photo of that night. The picture is perfect...a sparkling boy, his grinning nanny, a hug, a gifted souvenir, and a poster. Perfect.

When the ice cream vendor walked through the section next to ours, Little Litigator was inexplicably (note my sarcasm there...) ravenous. We tried...and failed...to capture the vendor's attention. So you know who flagged him down? That's right...a fellow Detroiter sitting a few rows up, moved by Detroit spirit to intervene on behalf of a hungry, sweets craving child.

The score kept getting worse, but the Little Litigator was riding high on sugar, adrenaline and the friendliness of strangers. "You know," said our gift-giving neighbor, "I think he's the only one here having any fun...but at least he's keeping the rest of us from crying!" Indeed, just before St. Louis scored their tenth (TENTH!!) and final goal of the game, a tiny irate little voice bellowed out "Hey ref! Where's the whistle?!" and triggered a wave of laughter through our section. "That's right, kid, you tell 'em!"

I suppose some would argue we just lucked into nice people. Maybe. But here's the thing...that's a lot of nice people to be a city you'd call grim, no? I don't think it was just nice people. I think it was Detroit. It wasn't just Wings fans...it was a community embracing a new young fan, a community that didn't care what suburb he might be from (or even that he was from the 'burbs), that didn't care what his parents do for a living, that didn't care what color his skin was or what religion his family practices, that didn't care what political leanings he might grow up to have, that didn't care about anything except that he was one of them, that he was a Detroiter doing a Detroit thing for his first time. And that this was enough to celebrate.

That, my friends, is truly Detroit.

After the game, as we wandered looking for the right shuttle, I hefted him onto my hip and pointed out the lights across the Detroit River. "See that? See the river? See those lights? Those lights are a whole other country, sugar bean. Those lights are Canada." He was briefly fascinated, and then replied, "But this side is still Detroit, right? And I'm from Detroit, right?" I thought about that. He wasn't born here, he was born in Chicago...a city his family still dearly loves. I reminded him of this fact. He thought for moment, then lifted his sleepy head from my shoulder and gazed across the river. "Yeah," he said, yawning. "But not anymore. I used to live in Chicago, but not anymore. I choose Detroit now."

Congratulations, Detroit. Another Detroiter.

beautiful

Makeup on little girls.

It goes against nearly everything I believe to be right for children. I don't believe in forcing gender stereotypes on children because I know that they'll find those on their own...and they will choose to fit with or to reject those molds as comfortable and enjoyable. I've watched a mom desperate for a girly girl provide her daughter with all the necessary princessy things and that lovely girly girl looking child choose, instead, trucks, swords, and sports as her childhood passions. I've watched another mom horrified as her daughter eschewed gender neutral toys and interests for everything pink and glittery. I know of one little boy who loves fairy wings and the color pink...and God bless his parents for allowing him the dignity to make his choices. No matter the reasons or influences, children know what they do and do not like. At the heart of it, I think the best we can do as parents or caregivers is to respect their passions and interests and give them healthy ways in which to pursue those.

There are some places I draw the line and it tends to be drawn right at the place between "age appropriate" and "over my dead body." I don't care, for instance, how passionately or desperately a toddler wants to wear tube tops and lipstick. Or a twelve year old, for that matter. Little girls are little girls and, at least under MY watch, they aren't going to go around looking like street whores in string bikinis and high heels. I can't bear to watch the "reality shows" that depict little girls being made up and tarted up and spray tanned all to win a $500 "beauty pageant" because, come on...if you're trying to teach your little girl that she's beautiful enough to win a beauty contest...why the hell are you putting in hair pieces and fake teeth and having her spray tanned and plastered in cosmetics? What you're really teaching her is "Here, honey, if we put all this fake stuff on you...THEN you'll be beautiful. If we don't do that, you don't stand a chance in hell of winning this thing and mommy really needs the money this brings in." Hello, future eating disorders.

Over the years, I've struggled with the makeup issue and my little girl charges. Most of them are fascinated with makeup, I think mostly because they get to watch Mommy or Nanny put it on and they associate with with "being a grown up". They want to do what we do, whether it be to help prepare dinner, to help vacuum, or to put on makeup. Usually, I can pacify them by pretending to dust their faces with a makeup brush, or handing them lip balm. As a special treat, we might paint toenails together, or even go for real big girl manicures together. I struggle with what is right...is it healthy or damaging to tell them they are pretty? To fuss over their hair and put bows in it? To indulge their passion for twirly skirts and sparkly shoes? Shouldn't the focus be on inner, not outer, beauty?

I admit I am largely affected by the fact that I've never felt beautiful. Growing up, any compliment on my looks was coupled with criticism. "You have such beautiful hair, if only we could do something about that mole on your face!" "Your eyes are lovely, if it weren't for those dark circles." "You'd be so pretty if you gained weight/lost weight/cut your hair/grew your hair longer/wore skirts/put on a little makeup/smiled more..." In retaliation to my background, I am painstakingly careful when I tell my charges they are beautiful. I don't qualify it or temper it. Just "You are so beautiful." I tell them this when they are dressed in their fancy dresses, when they are in jeans...when they are picture perfect and when they are covered in sand and grime and fingerpaint and sidewalk chalk...when their sweet faces are freshly washed or covered in the remains of a peanut butter sandwich. "You are so beautiful" End of story. I tell them all the time. To be fair, I also tell them they are smart, kind, polite, creative, strong, interesting, compassionate, generous, and clever. But it delights me to have a child who, with her hair all askew and growing every which way, her face covered in breakfast, and her jeans on backwards, can look in the mirror and crow "I'm beautiful!". Much as I loathe the focus on appearance, it would shatter me for them to ever think they are anything less than beautiful, regardless of what their appearance might actually be. There's a confidence that comes with feeling pretty, the world sees you differently when you have that confidence...and treats you better. I think when you feel pretty, you probably expect to be treated well by the world and you don't tolerate people who treat you poorly because you KNOW you deserve better. Maybe that's warped, but there's alot of scientific evidence that shows that pretty people are treated better...even in school classrooms.

But makeup on a child? No. You are beautiful as you are, my little one, no matter how you are.

So, I confess, I shocked even myself when I came up with the idea to take the Twincesses to a little girl beauty salon for their birthday present. When a home has twins with a birthday exactly one month after Christmas, well, the toy room and art closet get pretty darn full this time of year. They last thing they needed was more toys or craft kits (or even books...we haven't gotten through all the new ones yet!). Plus, once they are old enough to remember I prefer to give my little ones experiences rather than toys. If a gift is about giving something you know the recipient would enjoy, then I had to suck up the few feminist principles I have and take the girls to glitter hell.

In theory, these salons are a feminist nightmare. They are pink and glittery and completely focused on traditional, stereotypically girl things. Cheerleaders. Princesses. Divas...not a doctor or chemistry set in sight. These places are entirely focused on outward beauty...nothing about being kind, or smart, or curious, or brave. Just being...pretty. And pink. A little purple, but mostly pink. Bright, bright pink. With sparkles. These places tend to look like Barbie and her friends threw up in there (probably on purpose after drinking some fattening water) and then danced on it, probably in their heels, bustiers, and fake plastic molded underwear. It can be horrifying.

As soon as we stepped in and heard the Taylor Swift CD playing over the sound system my little girly girls started twirling in their twirly skirts and giggling with pure delight. It made me pause. Am I doing the right thing? All they could chortle about all morning long was "We're getting makeup!" Am I laying a groundwork for eating disorders? Am I going to see them on Oprah in 15 years weighing 13 pounds and vomiting up anything they eat, crying about how their nanny took them to get makeovers for their 4th birthday and they've never felt pretty since then? The only thing that kept me from hauling them back out the door was their sheer delight and apparent belief that they'd discovered heaven.

They got their nails done. They got "party updos"...and bless the stylist for working with their thin, flyaway baby hair rather than slapping on fake hair pieces. They got to pick everything...their nail color, their hairstyle, the color of the flowers that got put in their hair. I almost said no to the makeup...but I couldn't resist the delight on their faces that they were being treated like real grown ups...real people. They weren't being told what to do or what not to do...just "Tell us what you like, and we'll give that to you." They weren't once told to sit still or sit up straight...they were asked "Do you want to be a rock star? A princess? A Diva? Have twisties in your hair?" and "Great choice!" no matter what their reply. Every time the stylist approached them, she asked their permission to do what she was about to do...respecting that they have the right to decide who does what to their physical selves.

The make up was light...barely noticeable eyeshadow and blush and sheer lip gloss. But oh, they felt like ladies.

As I struggled inside with it, I remembered a piece from a favorite book of mine. In her memoir, "Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress", author Susan Gilman describes her experience walking into a previously despised...but unvisited...bridal gown store to find a wedding gown for herself. As she looked around the large, nationwide chain store, she realized that it was not...as she had thought...an anti-feminist hell hole. It had dresses...beautiful dresses in every size that women come in. It had a staff that treated every woman like royalty, no matter how she looked. She realized that despite it's girly girl traditional values facade, this was a place where EVERY WOMAN was told she was beautiful and priceless and deserving of royal treatment. It was, she decided, the most feminist place she'd ever been.

Looking around this little girl salon...taking in the tiny pedicure stations set up just right for short little legs, the movie star directors chairs that lift little girl heads up to the right height for stylist hands, the runway/catwalk where every little girl can strut down to applause, I began to realize that maybe it was not such an awful place after all. This wasn't a place that said, "Here, we'll make you pretty...for once" or "With makeup you can be pretty." It was a place that said, "You are beautiful, who do you want to be today...we'll help you be who you want to be today...we will indulge your fantasies without judgement...and tomorrow you can wash it all off and change your mind...because whatever persona you want to try on today to see how it fits you, that's okay. We will not judge or comment...only applaud because you are you and that is fantastic."

I can't argue with that, can I? That's the kind of world I wish for every child!

The little rock star and the little princess spent twenty minutes twirling and floating and giggling down the modeling runway, clapping for each other, posing for the camera...then jumping off the end of it and racing as fast as their sturdy little legs would carry them backstage to emerge through the beaded curtain once again. And the next day, with all the glitter hairspray and makeup washed down the bathtub drain, my lovely, wonderful, strong, brilliant, caring, loving little charges both still danced and skipped around their world, confident in their beauty and talents, sure that no matter what they look like they are, truly, beautiful...with or without makeup.

Thank God for greedy, materialistic children!

If your home (or, if you're a nanny, the home where you work) is anything like the home where I work, for the past couple of months you've had tiny little hands grabbing at every catalog that comes in the mail, crayons at the ready to circle every item of fascination for Santa's list. If those tiny hands belong to tiny people who also watch TV, they can quote you verbatim every hot new your-childhood-is-incomplete-and-miserable-without-this-toy advertisement. It can get kind of wearing when young voices beg for every toy in the store and clamor to keep writing and rewriting letters for the North Pole because the last letter was not quite complete.

It is easy to get discouraged when we see all our efforts at building thoughtful, generous little people dissipate into greedy, grabby, demanding, selfish, materialistic holiday-fueled behaviour. We might start to worry that the child who is begging for every toy in creation today will grow up to be just as self-focused, greedy, and materialistic as an adult.

It can become even more of a struggle when we, as the adults, struggle ourselves with wanting to provide them every joy in the world along with the knowledge and understanding of how truly truly blessed we might be. We see a story about a family whose home just went up in flames. We hear about parents who have lost their child. A child who just lost his parents. A couple struggling, thus far unsuccessfully, to build a family. A family just given a horrific, life altering diagnosis. Families and individuals without homes, food, or love. Countries where children starve to death, daily, for lack of food. Places where physical safety is unknown. Children who only know touch to be something that brings shame, or pain.

We hear these things and it gives a new perspective, it helps us to be a little more grateful for what we have.

I recently read a comment about a newscaster reading a child's letter to Santa wherein the child asked Santa to go to heaven and give his mommy a hug for him. The comment continued...what would children ask for if they weren't brainwashed by toy companies?

I thought about that and it dawned on me: They'd probably still ask for toys, and isn't that beautiful?

A child who asks for a message to be taken to his mommy in heaven is a child who knows the loss of his mother. It is his greatest wish to see her again, to be held by her again. It is natural for him to have this wish, given his circumstances. But why on earth would we want for every child to have this wish? Or even for one more child to wish for his mother?

A child who asks for toys instead of for a meal is a child who goes to bed with a full belly, who does not know hunger. A child who asks for a gaming system over having her parent back is a child who still knows the loving presence of her parent, who has not experienced the devastation of that kind of loss. A child who wants a Transformer instead of a home is a child who has a place to feel safe and to lay his head at night, who does not know what it is like to wander the streets or live in a shelter or be bounced from foster home to foster home. When a child is desperate to possess this year's "must have" item, that child is a child who likely has his basic needs met and doesn't even comprehend what it would be like to not have those needs for food, shelter, and love met.

Isn't that an amazing, wonderful thing?

Isn't it worth celebrating?

I do not, in any way, mean to belittle or mitigate the extent of need in our world. I firmly and fully believe in the responsibility of every individual to give to, and care for, the world around them. I believe this is our responsibility every day, not just at the holidays. On the flip side of this, though, I don't know that it is appropriate to tell a child writing a letter to Santa that his desire for new toys is invalid...or shameful...because other children want a home or a mommy or food. Absolutely, give him the opportunity throughout the year to participate in making the world a better place for his fellow humans. But don't deny him his own innocence, his own experience of a safe, happy, joyful world just because not every child has what he has.

For now, while part of my heart aches for every child...every adult...every person...in pain or in need, the other part of my heart rejoices for and celebrates the fact that so many children have the love, the safety, the freedom, the peace, the opportunity, and the chance to be greedy, materialistic, selfish little elves at Christmas time.

I thank God that they don't know any differently.

I still believe in Santa

I still believe in Santa.

I realize that may sound a bit delusional from a 37 year old woman, but it is true. I still believe in Santa. It comes in handy, as a nanny. I get to genuinely participate in the delight of my charges.

Don't get me wrong, I've had my doubts over the years. Questions. Suspiscions.

When I was three, I asked my mother why the Santa at one place had brown eyes and the Santa at another had blue eyes. She pointed out that it could be pretty hard for Santa to be in all places at one time, so sometimes his helpers dressed up and passed the news along to him about what all the kids wanted. Thirty four years later, this still makes sense to me.

When I was five, I recognized the handwriting on the gift tags as my dad's handwriting. He didn't miss a beat when he said that the elves and Santa get pretty busy so they sometimes leave the gifts for the moms and dads to wrap and tag. This, too, still makes sense to me.

I was just beginnning to truly suspect something was awry with the whole Santa spectacle at age 8, when we moved from Minnesota to southern California. We moved into our warm, sunny new home in October.

Santa lived across the street.

I'm not kidding. There he was...white beard, round belly, red pants...woodworking in his garage. He told my brother and I that it got pretty cold for old bones up in the North Pole, so he and Mrs. Claus had moved south. It was a secret, he said. To fit into society and keep an eye on people, he and Mrs. Claus called themselves Preston and Dixie. When it wasn't Christmas season, they performed as professional clowns so they could see what all the kids were up to.

It made perfect sense to us, the idea of leaving a cold and snowy land for bright California. All year long, we'd scribble out lengthy letters to Santa about what we wanted and then...because we were the luckiest kids in the world on this front...we walked our letters across the street to Santa's house.

When I started to hear ugly rumors at school, I questioned my parents about Santa again. They handled it with rare sensitivity. "Santa," I was told, "is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time." Well, I can buy into that, can't you?

Eventually, I figured out that the presents beneath the tree probably weren't made by tiny little half-humans on the polar ice cap and that they probably didn't arrive via a fat man, eight reindeer, and a sleigh. In fact, when I realized that my parents were behind the Christmas morning toy bonanza, I spent WEEKS thanking them for each individual item I could remember as a Santa gift. I felt horrifically guilty for the expense, ashamed of my own greed, and determined to keep cost in mind for every future Christmas list. Since the actual day of a holiday was usually a disaster in our home...packed chock full with rages, accusations, fights, and tantrums...I learned to focus on what I could give, rather than what I got. No matter how unhappy a Christmas got (including the one stellarly awful Christmas in college when I got thrown out of my mother's house on Christmas Day for a snarky comment), I kept in mind that one answer about who Santa REALLY is: The spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. It gives me a focus, not just for how I choose to be, but for what I choose to see in the world around me.

It would be easy to grow cynical; to bemoan the greed around me, to snark that it would be nice to see generosity all year around rather than just at the holidays. I guess I could focus more on the crazy drivers in the mall parking lot rather than the friend who politely held the door for more than 100 people at a busy restaurant last weekend. But, I remember my second Christmas in mission and being on the flip side of Toys for Tots...the side that got to hand out box after box after box after box of donated toys to weeping, grateful, shame-filled parents who just wanted their own little ones to experience a bit of magic in their impoverished lives for one, sparkly, gift filled morning.

I remember a former nannykid taking a big gulping frightened breath and asking me if could keep her secret about something. (I, of course, immediately imagined the worst and suggested she tell me first, then we'd deal with the secret part). "I don't know," she ventured, "if I believe in Santa anymore." The perk in her step and the glow in her eyes were well worth it when I told her the truth: "Well, I still believe in Santa. Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time, and I believe in that with all my heart."

I remember my first Christmas in mission, sicker than I'd ever been in my life thanks to a bout with intestinal amoebas and having had to miss the last night of posadas and a real Honduran holiday...I crawled out of bed while everyone was in the chapel to a message on our message board, "Merry Christmas, Tara...we love you, your brothers and sisters in Christ."

This year, I believe in Santa more than ever.

Three months ago, one of my own nanny babies was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, Burkitt's lymphoma. The treatment has been brutal on this little boy. He has spent more time in the hospital than at home. He is unable to attend first grade. Because of how the tumor is sitting, he has almost no sensation in his lower body save for extreme nerve pain. While I'm sure his parents must have many moments of despair, anger, and frustration, they walk this journey with their boy with humor, grace, and optimism in a way that puts me in awe every day. I know how very much I love this child and I'm just his former nanny. So, I know that how his parents love him is infinitely wider and greater than what I can imagine. I know how his suffering breaks my heart, so I know that the agony his parents experience watching him go through this has got to also be infinitely wider and greater than anything I can possibly imagine, as well.

They don't show that side much. It is extraordinarily humbling and inspiring.

Last month, as the holidays approached, I realized that he probably wouldn't get to see Santa this year at any of the local malls. His immune system is shattered from the chemo, and going to a germ-filled mall could be very risky. So I thought...Santa is magic. Soon, this child might start to not believe in the reality of Santa magic because he's getting older and getting to that questioning age. Cancer has taken so much from them these past few months, I'll be damned if it is taking Santa, too. There has to be a Santa out there, I thought, who will let me pay him to go to their house.

I mentioned this thought to a new friend. "Oh, I know just who you need to call. Santa Norm is the real Santa. He's a friend of mine, he might do it." I asked her to contact him for me and to see what he would charge. She did so delightedly. I suspect she's part Santa.

Santa Norm waved off any fee. Santa understands his magic, and understands how precious that magic can be. So this wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man...a total stranger...gave of his time and self during a very very busy time of year in order to bring Christmas to life for a family he did not know.

This afternoon, at that family's home, there was a knock at the door.

Sometimes, Santa doesn't come down the chimney, after all.

Santa is the spirit of loving and giving at Christmas time. And yes, I still believe in Santa.