Believing

I felt a little embarrassed that we were the first ones in line to see Santa Claus.

I even considered letting the family just behind us step to the front. 

They were a family of seven. Two parents, four grandparents, and one small child who looked the opposite of interested in seeing the big guy with the beard.

Looking at my brother, though, I knew I wasn't going to let anyone go in his place. He'd been waiting twelve long months for this moment. Almost daily he had reminded me of the fact that we missed Santa last year.

A nice woman came to direct. Giving my brother an appraising look as he jumped up and down while clapping his hands, the woman could sense his excitement. "You're the first ones here!" she said.

Quietly I told Erik that he could not sit on Santa's lap. "Just stand next to him." I directed, praying he would be compliant.

My brother is 38 and stands at 5'10. Yes, he still believes in Santa and feels that sitting on his lap is an option. Erik is also intellectually disabled. 

Liam, my youngest, is nine but decided to 'just send him a letter' this year. Erik didn't care. This trip was for him.

There are some people who get Erik, who innately understand that he is more than he appears. Maybe they love their own special person or perhaps they are just tuned into humanity. The men taking money that night didn't understand. 

They did not know they were in the presence of a true Believer.

Now, before you get your hackles up about Santa and the Truth and Christmas being hijacked by consumerism hear me: Erik fully understands who Jesus is. As we walked through the entrance to Southern Lights here in Lexington he was proclaiming the Good News to all who had ears.

"Oh, yeah, Jesus Christ is the reason we're here!" he loudly shouted. Lee and the boys had already abandoned us and were spectating from the other end of the room. "Jesus was born and it's Christmastime and we are here to celebrate his holy birth!"

My brother's inner evangelical preacher comes out every now and then. It is a sight to behold. A few people glanced in our direction but most people kept their eyes on their phones.

Erik opted to skip the funnel cake and complete his mission. He writes Christmas lists to Santa that could fill books. Often it's just the deepest desires of his 80's hard rock heart: AC/DC cds, t-shirts, drum sets, bass guitars, iPhone X, etc., etc. 

Sometimes he slays me with his requests, though. He sent my Dad a text around Thanksgiving that helped me forgive his Santa obsession. If you read my newsletter you know that Mom recently had an injury that left her bedridden for a bit, which had Erik concerned.

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That kind of stuff from him just kills me. It does help me to tolerate some of his more asinine behavior. Speaking plainly as a sibling, it can be a real drag to be in public when he  loses his shizzle.

Approaching police officers and EMT staff as though he knows them, yelling about being kicked out of restaurants (an imagined anxiety that comes to life in his head), and weird self stimming tics are just a few things that can make being his sister difficult. 

There are golden moments, though, when I feel like my brother is an actual angel. Observing an interaction between a stranger and Erik can be one of those. A look of clarity will pass over the person's face as they speak to him and I know that they know, too.

Or sometimes he'll be incessantly chatting about music to me and then he'll cock his head and say something beautiful to me, like, "Remember when we were kids and I sat on the end of your bed?" It's like he knows that I need to be reminded that I'm not alone in remembering our childhood.

I had a golden moment with him Tuesday night when he went to see the man in the red suit.

 I can't count the number of times I've watched him walk to see Santa. I will guarantee you that every single time I've prayed that he doesn't do anything too weird.

Traditions can become mundane, just something that you do every year because you've always done it that way. Other times, though, traditions reignite your faith, offering fresh perspective on an act completed many times. This is one of those instances. 

After we gave the man his money we waited for the thumbs up. Erik bounced happily, clapping his hands and smiling beautifully. He's literally the real life version of Buddy the Elf.

"Santa!" he shouted and ran up to the unsuspecting dude who's mustache wasn't quite in position. "I've been waiting to see you! I missed you last year!"  He said lots of other things that muddled together in his excitement.

Reminding him that it was time for a picture,  I cued Erik to smile. The man behind the camera was careful to get a good one - he even took a second photo just to be sure.

Erik and Crooked Mustachioed Santa

Moving in closely so that I could translate Erik's difficult-to-understand speech I could feel the exultation rolling off of my brother. There is no such thing as fake in this guys world. As I echoed my brother's words for the jolly man he told Erik that AC/DC was one of his favorite bands, too.

This gave Erik an opening for a monologue.

Pointing out that there were other people waiting in line I moved to go. Erik stood up, reluctantly, and told Santa he loved him and kissed him on the head.

That was new. I rolled my eyes and laughed.

And then wiped the tears from my cheeks because I was crying the entire time.

My love for my pain in the ass brother is deeper than I can ever express verbally. His belief in Santa sometimes drives me crazy. It can be a little weird when he chases Santa down in public. Also, I don't like lying to Erik. 

Liam and I had a conversation about this very subject a few weeks ago. The fantasy cannot match the reality of a budget. My little boy  felt sad when I gave the news that the North Pole isn't real but it was necessary. This isn't the first time he's heard it, he's just got a beautiful imagination.

I won't do that to Erik, though.

In a world that he does not get to fully participate in I will not take this away from him. He walks through a life filled with negatives. No, you can't drive. No, you can't get married. No, you can't be a father. No, you can't go on stage with KISS during the concert. No, you can't cook your own food or live in your own apartment.

Erik gets to keep Santa. 

Just before my brother walked up to Santa I saw faith in action. For Erik it doesn't matter that he doesn't get exactly what he asks for. He simply wants to be heard. 

Isn't that what we all want?

As I watched Erik proudly step forward in faith that the desires of his heart would simply be heard I saw the world for what it is: a beautiful, messed up place where we are each just trying to be heard. Erik's gift is that he has no expectations for outcome.

If the negatives of this life don't ruin his believing heart, neither will I. If Erik can remove his expectations and joyfully accept whatever outcome occurs, so will I. 

Be brave, misfits. Don't stop believing. 

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I Used to Be Funny

At least I think that I used to be funny

Writing funny words came easily and I have a whole blog to prove it.

These days, though, I spend a lot of time uttering the words, "I'm not being funny!"

They all laugh at me as though I am being funny. It's very confusing.

Like when I tell them I'm going to super glue the hand towel to the bar in the bathroom, they laugh like I've told the greatest joke.

Why is this towel bar not fulfilling its life purpose?

Or when I say please don't make a mess in the backyard.

Or when I say I'd like you to eat more vegetables.

They come to me, these people of mine, whom I love with every cell of my body, and they ask me so many questions.

They ask how they can poop, quickly, and why don't we have anything good to eat in the house, and could  we please skip our daily walk because they haven't seen this episode of The Amazing World of Gumball that is literally on EVERY TIME I TURN ON THE TELEVISION.

In fact, they ask me so many questions I think they've erased my funny.

Now I'm funny when I don't want to be because I cannot remember words like refrigerator, light switch, and car. My people, whom I love with a deep, deep affection, have used up all of my brain cells and rendered me incapacitated.

I say things like, "I have to take my thingy up to that place."

And they say, what?

The only words I find are, "You know, the thing with wheels needs that stuff like milk to make it go fast."

That's who I am now. I'm 45 and I cannot remember words.

Also, not only have I forgotten words but my fashion sense has become completely utilitarian. Cold Water Creek is not calling me for questions regarding trends. Frankly, neither is Goodwill.

Pants with elastic waists and socks that almost match work for me.

Shirts that are warm and clean are all I'm looking for. Clean is so hard to come by because I keep putting my dirty clothes back in my dressers because of the ever-loving brain cell depletion.

Are you laughing? Because it's NOT funny!

Then, on the days when I think, heck yes Kara, you have still got it going on because my shoes are cute, my jeans give me good butt, and I am wearing a power cardigan one of my kids will say, "You're going out in that?"

They're using subterfuge, keeping me in a state of confusion so I say yes to idiotic things. Like slime filled containers with plastic dinosaur bones buried inside while on a toilet paper excursion at the Dollar Store. "It's for school, Mom. We'll get some library books about dinosaurs and do a project."

This happened! Recently! Gaslighting from my youngest!

Another of their favorite tactics is to feign competency. I have theories on where they learned this trick, but for now I'll keep them to myself.

One of them will say, "Oh, the floor looks like it needs to be mopped, I'll do that in the morning." I'll think, awesome, I have raised such a smart, competent person.

Feeling excited I go the Dollar Store and buy Swiffer dusters because that's how I have fun these days. I wake up at 5 a.m. excited for our cleaning spree and I maniacally clean the entire house. My smart kid sleeps in and I pass out after a pot of coffee and three hours of solo cleaning.

Foiled again! 

These children of mine will the rue the day, I tell you.

In fact, maybe they already do. My new tactic is to say bizarre things to them when checking out in the grocery.

"Do you want this chapstick in the bag?" the bagger asked. I told him he could give it to my kid, then I turned to my adult-ish kid and said, "Now don't eat this one, honey."

#winning

Last month my nine year old and I were at Walgreens and I had told him under no circumstances was he buying anything. When we met back up he noticed I was holding a box. He didn't notice the box said 'maxi pads'.

'Why do you get something and I don't?" my enraged kid said in a loud voice.

I paused and then told him, equally loud, it was because mommy's uterus was shedding it's inner lining and without theses nice pads I would bleed everywhere. There was a lot of silence on our way to the register.

Thinking on it, he hasn't asked to go the store with me recently.

#winning

I'm wondering if they have Christmas themed bathing suits at Target, because I'm feeling bold. 

Be brave misfits, and keep laughing!