Why Did I Write About Santa?

6th January, 2012 - Posted by Arita Trahan - Post a Comment - Current Comments (0)

Had you mentioned it to me prior to that moment, my writing a book about Santa would have seemed ridiculous. Then the moment arrived.

It was a typical “playing Santa” dilemma of which I was only a spectator. Norma was in such a dither when she got off the phone, concerned that her gift for her god-daughter would somehow spoil the Santa-believing that was so important to her parents. She had said she would get it for her, and now her mom had told her it was from Santa. Should she take her name off the gift? How could she save herself in the situation? It was my effort to sooth her that coaxed from me a story of my first parenting experience with Santa, one I had never told before. Norma had never heard anything like it.

When she suggested that I write it all down, Norma told me that what I had learned in the contrasting experience of my two generations of Santa play could be a valuable offering. Could it? The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to encourage parents who yearn for integrity in their parenting, to empower them to write and rewrite the stories they tell their children, and to trust their child’s innate ability to make-believe as the most magical of gifts. My story could bring “Santa” and “honesty” into the same event.

As I wrote with this intention, I was surprised to experience a cathartic healing of my own childhood memory. By the time I finished writing the book, the injury that had haunted me for decades was only a fading shadow, like something I had imagined or dreamed. Instead, I saw value in my childhood disillusionment and felt genuine gratitude for the entire experience. The pain at the beginning of the book was gone by the end. Rather than rewrite the beginning, I chose to expose my own vulnerability and the resultant evolution.

Though the book itself is in print, the ideas that prompted it are still developing and expanding. I like thinking of it as a portal through which those who read it can pass, finding themselves freer on the other side, equipped with new ideas and eager to create and execute their own.

Parenting is a learn-as-you-go experience. It certainly isn’t one-size-fits-all. It doesn’t replicate itself well, as parents discover with the arrival of their second child. Each moment, circumstance and relationship is unique and I believe best played-out with fresh and new ideas. Parenting keeps us constantly on our toes.

Parenting ourselves is the same. We shape and choose and allow and encourage ourselves. We tell ourselves stories that we tend to believe. Perhaps self-parenting is an ongoing part of our purpose in this life.

“Santa” serves as an archetype and cultural phenomenon that brings into focus what is important to us in our rituals, our celebrations and our roles as story-tellers and mentors. Santa is a current cultural mythology that skirts religion (or not) and affects us all whether we actively engage or passively avoid. Santa is a great place to enjoy self-examination and expansion.

Besides all that – I’m a fan.

Reaching for the Truth

3rd January, 2012 - Posted by Arita Trahan - Post a Comment - Current Comments (0)

I haven’t been able to find my glasses of late. Looked everywhere, reaching under car seats and revisiting places I have been in my mind. Glad my vision is as good as it is, and relying on Mark to drive after dark. Wondering where they are.

This morning as I was getting up I remembered dreaming that I had found them. Not a dream of where they were – just remembering touching them with my fingers. Then I put my hand in my robe pocket and touched them with my fingers. Contact – ahhhh.

I haven’t been able to find my dad of late. Looked everywhere, reaching under crazy things he says and revisiting places we were together in my mind. Glad I have it as good as I do, and relying on my brother to care for him and me in this dark place. Wondering where my real dad is.

This morning I have felt so emotionally ragged. Like who he is and who I am (mom too) are really all mixed up together. I am only one little lean away from being all the crazy they seemed to me, right there next to the sanity I seek to claim. I realize that many of the comments and judgments that they made for many years were already on the track to the current dementia. So many of the odd moments that I found so off-putting were a result of this drifting of the mind into a different reality.

When my dad started visiting my second cousin a few years ago, I was jealous that he would choose to be with him over me and my brother. That he seemed to prefer him over us in so many ways. He even claimed to have “practically raised him” when it was his father he was actually remembering. But since Dad seemed sane in other ways, I was simply baffled and hurt.

Now I realize that the altering of history in his mind was going on for years. It explains so many cruelties. It also makes me aware that most of the horrible things he told me about my brother and his family were fabrications – true only to him. And here lies the rub. And the relief.

This morning Mark was recalling the smell of bacon being shared among the over-nighters at the Rose Bowl Parade yesterday. And I remembered the time in my childhood when Dad would take the four of us water skiing early in the morning on Lake Charles. The placid lake was such a serene treat to young skiers, almost like flying standing up. And the best part was Dad cooking eggs and bacon on the beach afterwards. Still early morning, the sun finding its slanty footing on the sand. And we were so hungry, and the smell of bacon traveled so far on the morning air. It wasn’t fair to anyone not invited to partake.

There he is. My dad. The play hard, work hard, make-work-your-play kinda guy. It was all so clear then. I can feel it with my fingertips.

I’m Not Your Mother!

16th December, 2011 - Posted by Arita Trahan - Post a Comment - Current Comments (0)

And I’m saying this as a reminder to myself.

Last week Mark had oral surgery and was prescribed an antibiotic to be taken every six hours (“Yes, please set your alarm and take it during the night.”) I set my phone alarm that first night and thereafter became his human reminder every 6 hours for the next few days – calling him at work, reminding him at home. But I noticed pills occasionally returning from work and staying in their little dispenser cup on the counter at home even after the reminder.

A little personal history. I do things early. Once in school there was a rather involved assignment given, due in 3 weeks time. One week later the teacher announced to the class that she had changed her mind and was going to assign something different a little later. I held up my hand. I had already finished mine. A silence ensued during which it felt like everyone in the class drew themselves back just a bit, allowing a little extra space between us. What? Does that make me a monster?

Mark, on the other hand, well . . . . he’s on the other hand. And yet we are hooked up for life. Perfect.

This morning when I saw that yesterday afternoon’s last pill was still here, I freaked. I gave fair warning to Mark and he gave me a wide berth. Within moments I was waking up. Mark has his own phone. The tooth was Mark’s tooth. The medicine was Mark’s medicine. My skills at “staying on top of things” are no excuse for nudging him to eat breakfast while it is still hot or return those messages on his phone, just because that’s what I would do. Mark always appreciates his breakfast – hot or cold, and the people in his life can find their own way of getting information to and from him. This is NOT MY BUSINESS. Let it go.

Breathe. Ahhhhhhh. Now. . . back to my life. Golly. . . It seems I’ve been neglecting a few things, writing being one of them. Perhaps I was using Mark as an excuse.  And, yet, here he is inspiring me to write this very morning.

He’s the perfect man for me.