07 june 2005
Santa and Nora and Me
by Nanci Olesen
She’s such an incredible person, my daughter Nora. She has wit and confidence, sensitivity and openness, curiosity and intelligence. She’s eleven. She loves to help me put out the h’ors d’ouevres for a fancy party. She’ll dress up for
any occasion in her very own style, sometimes a black suit coat, layered over a fancy flowered skirt. She has an eye
for fashion and yet a childlike intent to continue reading books up in the tree house or swing as high as she can
on the swing set. She’s performed stunningly in several professional theatre productions, and has a keen sense
of what she likes in music, both popular and traditional.
I had to stand by a tree this morning on the way to school.
I had to just stop in my tracks and wait for a second. I had to compose myself. I’m still not sure what the
ramifications of a few sentences exchanged as we got ready to walk out the door will be.
I was in the kitchen, finishing
my cereal. Nora was getting her lunch out of the fridge, still barefoot. I said “What shoes are you going to
wear?”
“I don’t know. Maybe just my gym shoes.”
She was dressed in a ruffly black knit skirt and her new
tank top that has blue sparkles around the edge.
“Hey, how about those cool black shoes from Dad?”
She looked at me, puzzled. “What?”
“I mean, oh, no, I mean, I mean, how about those cool black shoes you got this Christmas?” I stammered.... “from
Santa?”
Her eyes flashed a thousand emotions. Confirmed suspicions. Disappointment. Shock. I could see her telling herself “Of
course. I already knew that. I already totally KNEW.”
Last Christmas they had all three let me know that of course
they KNEW that Santa wasn’t real. I had to pull Henry aside—he’s fourteen—and STERNLY tell him that
HE DIDN’T HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER TO TELL HIM THAT THERE WASN’T A SANTA CLAUS AND HE BETTER NOT TELL HIS
SISTERS. THEY COULD FIGURE IT OUT FOR THEMSELVES ON THEIR OWN TIME AND IT WASN’T HIS PLACE TO RUIN IT FOR THEM!
“Okay. Alright,” he replied, startled by how worked up I was getting.
And now here we are. 6 months later and I’m the one who screws it all up.
Nora laughed at me at that moment this
morning, and darted away. But when I caught her eye on the way to school I could see her trying to organize her emotions
on her face. She totally already knew there wasn’t a Santa. That’s what she was reminding herself.
I pulled
her aside. “Please don’t tell Léne.” Léne’s 10.
“I won’t. Mom. God.”
Léne stumbled after us. “What? Tell me what? What are you guys
talking about?”
“Nothing,” Nora and I answered together, and Nora looked up at me again, to see my sorrowful face.
“Hey Nora, is it okay if I write about this?”
I’m trying to be careful to not write about stuff
that makes them too exposed. Nora likes to read what I write and she’s been writing a lot of things herself lately.
“Yeah, that’s fine. It’s okay. Mom. It’s completely okay. It’s no big
deal.” She smiled at me, cheerfully.
So I’m writing about it. I’m hoping it will make me feel better.
I’m
relating one of those common experiences that parents have during these tenuous and confusing years.
I think I’ll
have Nora read it to see if she has any edits.
—Nanci Olesen
producer and host, MOMbo: 1990-2007 |
