JC is a pretty serious thinker. He hears everything, processes it, and then brings it up a week later in a completely different context. He rarely takes anything at face value. I’ve had to become a very quick thinker, because I never know what is going to come out of his mouth.
“Mom,” he asked me after an episode of Dinosaur Train. “Why do kids get adopted?”
Well, kids get adopted because…because…their real parents can’t take are of them? Nope, can’t say that. They lost their parents in a tragedy? Nope, not going there either.
“Well,” I answered. “Every family is different. Sometimes they come together in different ways.”
“Oh,” he replied. “Well, maybe we should get my little brother that way. Then it won’t take a long time for you to grow him in your belly. Where do you order one from?”
I should point out that I am not pregnant, nor am I planning to be any time soon. But JC is obsessed with babies, and he’s worse than a Jewish Bubbie when it comes to asking when he gets to be a big brother.
“Mom, can Santa Claus bring me a baby?” he asked nonchalantly last week, while he was zooming a hot wheels car along the counter.
“No,” I said firmly. “No, he cannot.”
“But I thought if I was good then my Christmas wish would come true!” The lower lip came out.
Sigh. I explained the “mommy has to grow a baby process” yet again. I’m pretty sure we talk about it daily right now.
Christmas has really offered a whole new host of things to think about.
“Mom, on Christmas, I’m going to wait up and talk to Santa,” he informed me.
“That’s now how it works. He won’t come unless you’re asleep.”
He gave me a look so reminiscent of his father in a bad mood I had to try not to laugh. “I have research that suggests otherwise, mom.”
Yes, yes he does. And I would like to thank the creators of the Peppa Pig holiday episode for giving my child hope that he’ll manage to wake up and chat with St. Nick.
I really think there should some sort of agreement amongst parents everywhere that Santa Claus only comes when you’re sleeping, and he can’t bring you anything that’s alive: babies, puppies, lizards, hamsters, etc.
Seriously. I think you should have to sign a contract before you’re allowed to have anything to do with kids.
Apparently obsessed with families, the next questions I heard had to do with Santa and his elves.
“Where are Santa’s parents, mom? Do you think they’re proud of him? Where do you think he met Mrs. Claus? Are the elves their children? Did she have them all at once? Her belly must have been GIANT.”
Later that night, when JC was all tucked in and almost asleep, he revisited the topic again.
“I bet Santa’s mom misses him when he has to work all night,” he said drowsily. “Do you think she misses tucking him in when he’s riding around in his sleigh?”
And then he falls asleep, and it’s finally quiet. The quiet is what I’ve wanted all day, but now that I have it, I kind of miss his chatter. I kiss him, and answer his question.
“Yes, I think she misses tucking him in.”