Blackmail

I'm a blackmailer.

A dirty, mean, heartless old blackmailer.

I've blackmailed my child into good behavior. I used one of the the oldest tricks in the book--done something I swore I'd never do--and lied to her straight faced.

I told the Little Miss that Santa would only bring her presents if she was good.

Before I had kids (and was, therefore, the best parent in the world), I promised myself I would never use Santa as a jolly old bribe. Now, I'm not one of those nutters who doesn't believe in including Saint Nick in any Christmas celebrations. I love the old Elf. I just thought it was stooping a bit low to claim only kids who made their beds got stacking blocks and candy canes.

Chalk up another in the long list of things I said I'd never do. It's just too tempting.

Little Miss is finally old enough to understand the whole Santa/presents thing this year, and as such, she is incredibly excited. It's amazingly fun, teaching her about reindeer and the North Pole and elves. I don't think I've been this excited about Christmas since I was a kid myself.

As for the whole, "He's sees if you've been bad or good" thing, I've been playing it up for all it's worth.

We sat at the kitchen table at lunch today, eating our peanut butter and honey sandwiches and listening to carols. The Little Miss was filling me in on all the Christmas info she's been gleaning from books and songs.

"And reindeer fly in the sky like a balloon and bring Santa and Santa comes down the chimney and brings me presents and Birdie presents and Mama presents and he says 'Ho, ho, ho!...'" she rambled on, her eyes wide and expressive.

I nodded solemnly. "Yup, you're right. But only if we're good, huh?"

She nodded back, her expression serious. "And be nice to Birdie and share..."

"Uh-huh..."

"And eat bananas and listen to Mama..."

I smiled, my attention wandering back to my plate.

"And don't draw on Birdie..."

"Wait. What?"

"And don't put Gazette in a box..." My eyes widened as she continued. "And don't color on walls and don't spit on the floor and don't put stinky diapers under the bed..."

I stifled a small gag. Was all of that what she normally did? This is what went on in that little brain of hers?

I stared at her, mouth agape, as she proudly finished up her list. "And no throwing carrots at the cat."

I blinked. "Um, yup. You're right. Santa doesn't like it when you do any of those things. All of that--all of it--that makes Santa sad. So, um, don't do those things. Ever. Ever, ever, ever."

"And Santa brings presents?"

"And Santa will bring you presents."