When Baby Jesus Killed Santa Claus

Ah. March, ACC basketball and also when my youngest nephew, the one Zach idolizes the most, mentioned that Baby Jesus killed Santa Claus.

Of course, when I say mentioned, I mean that he ripped out the heart of my baby, threw it against the wall, and then served it up with fava beans like Hannibal Lector. Then the twerp sneaked out the front door without telling anyone else that he’d just ruined Christmas, and broken my little boy’s heart.

Oh, how I wished I had known about their conversation on Saturday, when Zach chose to spend the day acting like–in retrospect–someone whose heart had been broken. At the time because I didn’t realize that Santa had been murdered, I just thought he was being a bratastic 4 year old. To the extent that I actually said, “dude, I hope you’re getting the flu like your Dad, because otherwise you’ve lost your mind”.

So, to summarize some key points:
1) Supposed to be a weekend of NCAA basketball good times, instead husband has the flu.
2) Spent the previous weekend with Small Person 2.0, who had the flu.
3) Tired from sleeping in a twin sized bed with two Small People.
4) Other Adult Person is out of commission. For at least the weekend.
5) I have PMS, which more and more often makes me a little Hulk-esque.
6) Daylight Savings Time is still making Small People get up too early.
7) I’m NOT a morning person.

With all of this, imagine my Sunday morning. It’s 6:22 am. I’m standing in front of the coffee pot–crusty, sleepy eyes watching that stream of hot caffeine. And oh, how I needed that caffeine. Part of me hears the microwave beep and, with one hand stirring sugar in my waiting cup, the other pulls out their morning gruel–er, oatmeal– adds the raisins and maple syrup. Zach starts to whine about eating oatmeal instead of pancakes, and I remind him that today is going to be better than yesterday, because there is no where left to go but up. I’m already patting myself on the back for that caring, positive response since what I *wanted* to say was, “I swear by all I don’t believe in that if you act like a douche today, I’m going to put you in your room and lock the door”.

Silence. Me and my blazing hot cup of coffee head to the table when I hear the most pathetic voice ever say– Mommy, A* told me that Baby Jesus killed Santa Claus.

Slosh-slosh, slam. Blink-blink-blink.
(Out loud) What? (In my head) the fuck .

Yeah, he said that when Baby Jesus was born, he killed Santa Claus and Santa was dead. His watery eyes meet mine, and he starts blinking super fast while saying, “but it’s not true though, right? I mean, I heard him going clop-clop, but A* said that was just Daddy. And babies don’t kill grown ups. And…why would a baby kill Santa?”

Now, I’ve pulled off some really good off-the-cuff answers, even early in the morning, but a murdering Baby Jesus just caught me unawares. I might have said something along the lines that A* was full of crap and that no one should ever listen to anything he ever says.

Don’t worry- I was better prepared the second time it came up. Which, of course it did. A few hours later, Z started telling me more about his visit with the cousins, how they didn’t play with him, just played with his toys and some of the mean things that A* had said. He paused and asked me again, “Is Santa real, mommy? I mean, I know the Easter Bunny is just you guys. So.” And then he just looked at me. Waiting. Quiet. Still.

I too sat still and quiet, and thought first before I spoke–because this kind of conversation is a big deal.

I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.