Being Seven

Seven…my lucky number; and also, the number my Lucky happens to be. Sigh…yes, my little girl just turned seven, and I’m finding a direct correlation between her increasing interrogations and the length of my cocktail hours…

“Mommy … What does ‘EPT’ spell?”; “Why do boys AND girls have nibbles on their boobies? How come only moms have boobies? When can I have boobies?”; “When do people die? Why do people die? Does it hurt when you die? When they bury your body, what do they do with your head?”; “Can I have babies but not a husband when I grow up?”; “How come you wear a diaper once a month?”; “Will the earth ever end?”; “How does the tooth fairy carry the money around if she’s so small?”; “Why does Santa bring me toys that say ‘Made in China’ when he actually makes them in the North Pole?”

And this was just yesterday.

To be honest, I’m more comfortable answering questions about babies, bodies, and death than I am about Santa, the tooth fairy, and Easter Bunny. Bubb already knows we are the tooth fairy, and I have an inkling he suspects us of impersonating the other holiday celebrities as well. His little sister Lucky is still gung-ho, but as many other parents know, it gets expensive to keep up this charade… because as parents, we want them to believe as long as they can. It keeps them innocent… and I know I’ll pay the extra penny to keep that going another year.

Right now, Lucky thinks she’s doing us a favor by not having asked for big things for her birthday… because “if you wait till Christmas, everything is free!”

Oh that’s’ right… I forgot. Santa is bringing the presents, so that means mom and dad don’t have to buy them. We just “wish” for stuff.  So, just like last year, and the year before that… mom and dad will wish for tube socks and toiletries…

Haven’t they wondered why we wish for that? I’m waiting for the question “Mommy, how come you don’t wish for a yacht?”

The questions are getting more complicated, and I’m running out of answers. Pretty soon, the light will go on and they’ll know the real reason mommy said ‘no’ to building a Santa trap by the fireplace. The tables will turn… and they’ll get to a point where they know we are in denial of them growing up… and use that against us.

I did it myself when I was a kid. I mean really… I was thirteen, and still “believed” in Santa. I’m sure my parents loved it, but I can imagine that they had those conversations too where they thought, “What the hell is wrong with her? Is she that stupid? I’m kinda tired of doing the fake excitement over a pack of razors routine….”

…When in fact, I was that smart. Because I knew that once the gig was up, the loot train would come to an end.

Eventually, it happened… the year where we all knew what was going on, but nobody wanted to be the first to spit it out. So, like any happily dysfunctional family, we just ignored it and went about our business… oohing and aahhhhing, thanking the invisible Santa in the room with a dopey voice and wink of the eye, because no one wanted to admit out loud that his cover was blown. The gifts from then on were a little more practical, and not as ridiculously abundant… my early evening letters to Santa with cookies and milk were replaced with a late goodnight kiss; instead of waking up at five in the morning, I slept in till ten; and I learned to get excited over tube socks…