And now I can’t find a video clip as evidence.

And I’m afraid it was all a dream.

Please don’t let this be a dream. Please let the Lionel Richie family be real.

Please?

That sounds harsh, and it is. But that’s how it feels when, willingly, I continue to convince my kids that the presents they got for Christmas came from some dude that broke into their house, some guy that was initially set up as a representation of sainthood – Saint Nicholas! – and has morphed into a ninja-like spectre of gift-giving.

Saint Nicholas of Myra gave gifts to the poor, devoted his life to his religion, and became the patron saint of children, sailors and the local pawn shop. St. Nicholas of the Netherlands is a character of folklore. In Germany, St. Nicholas is an approximation of Odin, a god in human clothing not unlike Jesus himself. These stories have been twisted, adapted and changed from their original celebration of giving, to the point that Santa has become a THING; no longer a representation of charity, Santa is now How We Get Presents.

We all know that. But my kids don’t. My kids don’t understand that Santa represents an abstract thought, just as they don’t understand that Dora the Explorer represents growth through following directions and learning language. There’s one difference, though: my kids don’t think Dora the Explorer is a real person.

So we lie to our kids for tradition’s sake. There’s nothing that we’ve given to our children that we haven’t want to claim ourselves, but there’s this unspoken rule that, yes, THIS gift is from Santa. Yes, that Santa. Yeah. The fat guy who ate the cookies.

It’s so ingrained that we don’t feel icky about it. But this year, I did. I felt downright AWFUL about pretending there was a Santa, that I took advantage of our four-year-old’s trust and our two-year-old’s naivety by keeping the charade up. I hated it. But I did it. And I’m questioning whether I do it again.

If you were raised in a typical Christian-based house as a kid, you remember the time you found out Santa wasn’t real. You remember it because it was one of the first times you realized your parents lie. That they’d lied to your face, for years, about the person who brought the gifts. You either accepted it for what it was, or you were sad and Christmas was ruined for the year, but one thing always remained: you wondered what else your parents lied about.

What else is simply a facade? What else should I question, refuse to trust, and all of that Rage Against the Machine worry.

Dramatic, yes. But Kerrie and I have made a point not to lie about things to our children. Outside of occasional lies of omission, we’ve done a decent job – as decent job as one can with two inquisitive whippersnappers wandering around.

But SANTA. Oh. Santa, Santa, Santa.

Next year? I hope Santa has gone away.

SIERRA: Who takes care of all of the babies?
KERRIE: When a baby is born, that baby’s parents take care of it.
SIERRA: But who takes care of ALL of the babies?
COREY: Do you mean who takes care of EACH baby? The baby’s mommy and daddy.
SIERRA: But what about when everyone was a baby?
US: …
SIERRA: Who took care of YOU?
KERRIE: When I was a baby, Grandma Cici took care of me.
SIERRA: But who took care of Grandma Cici?
KERRIE: Great Grandma took care of Grandma Cici.
SIERRA: But who took care of Great Grandma?
KERRIE: HER mother took care of her.
SIERRA: …
SIERRA: Maybe God took care of all of the babies. But then when he turned around all of the babies crawled away. *laughs* THAT’S SO HILARIOUS.

ISAAC: ONE…TWO…THREE…FOUR…
ISAAC: …
ISAAC: I LOVE TO COUNT.

What a bunch of nerds we’re raising.

It was small. Too small for the three of us, at least, though for the little ones it was perfect. It was three chairs long, two chairs across, with every blanket from every closet – this one was her baptism gift and this one was from his grandma and this one matches his room and this one is her favorite. And though it was dark, it wasn’t scary, because it was filled with giggles and stuffed animals and two little kids.

Nothing’s different under the blankets, really – the same toys doing the same things, the same people in more uncomfortable positions – but then again everything’s different. It’s a house. A cave. A cove for whatever the kids are going to conjure up. It’s the same floor and the same chairs, but it’s a different angle. A different atmosphere.

And then, it was dinner time. We needed the chairs. So it all came down.

In response to the tears, I promised that I’d help build a bigger one. Tomorrow. In the basement, using the sectional sofa and the quilts. We’d be able to keep it all up. Occupy Basement, I guess you could say.

“Can we play Memory again? Like last time?”

Of course. Of course we can.

Forts, you guys. They still rule.

“I’m tired.”

And so then there it was. The doubt. The unending problem of the parent, wherein we’re saddled with thoughts of ineffectiveness, when we question our abilities as parents, when we look back at each issue and think “At which exact point did we completely lose our handle on our child?”

Last night, it was probably when, after dinner, I threw back the covers of logic and decided, yes, we need to extend bedtime and, yes, we need to get frozen yogurt and, yes, we understand this will cause our kids to turn into whirling dirvishes, unable to sleep. Unable to close their eyes, or even comprehend the concept of bedtime.

We did it. We got home. We yelled a little because they weren’t listening, and we got frustrated and scowled at each other as we tried to be PARENTS and then slumped into chairs, still cursing the yogurt.

Everything we do is dedicated to helping them grow up.

And so with everything we do, we wonder which thing will break them.

We teach them to go to bed on time and not be upset if we get frustrated and eat your dinner please because we worked hard on that and oh, god, why are you getting down from the table? We let our dark sides come out, and we feel awful about it, and this is because we, as parents, understand how each nugget of time can persevere for years; how every lesson can either be learned or not, and when they’re learned they become Laws and Laws cannot be broken, even if all we want to do by that point is break the Law and get things back to the way they were before.

The pressure is always there. Be a perfect parent. Don’t let your kids down. Never do what is easy; always do what is right.

We try. Every day. We’re doing all right.

But there are days when all we can do is say, “Ah, screw it.”

“Let’s get ice cream.”

It’s absolutely necessary. Then: we start all over again.

My first night back, I had scheduled a content strategy meet-up. I wasn’t home until just before bedtime. Sierra wanted to know if I was coming home.

“Is Daddy coming home?’”

For three days I wasn’t there. It was only natural to be concerned that I wasn’t coming home on the fourth.

This morning, I left early, as I often do on Fridays, to take care of things at work. Sierra woke up and wanted to see me. Had a fit when she realized she didn’t say “goodbye” to me.

“We’re not a family anymore,” she said.

Four days. And we’re not a family anymore.

I was going to write a blog post about how much her “DADDDDDIIIIEEE!!!” means to me, how awful I feel when I let her down – when I’m not there, even for a night, even when we all know I’m going to be back soon – and how it breaks my heart every night I have to try to sleep in a hotel alone, without telling her what my favorite part of the day was, without getting to hear what she learned at school, without feeling like she and Isaac own my life and that I’ve become that sappy dad that can’t handle being away from his kids for even a day or two.

I didn’t write that post.

Good thing I didn’t. Because Merlin Mann did. And holy shit, you guys. He WROTE the shit out of it.

From 43 Folders, “Cranking”:

Many mornings over the past six months or so, at almost exactly 6:00 AM Pacific Time, I was not in my regular bed. I was not even at home. I was sitting in another building, typing bullshit that I hoped would please my book editor. Who, by the way, is awesome.

And, if I noticed what time it was, I’d always wonder whether my daughter had run into our bedroom yet.

I’d wonder whether she had seen my side of the bed empty again. And, when I thought about my empty spot on the bed and how disappointed she’d be to scream “DAD-dy! DAD-dy! DAD-dy!” then see I’m not even there, I’d die a little.

I’d die a little, because as I thought about her, I’d think about my Dad. And as I thought about my Dad, I’d start thinking about hospital beds with cranks–then on to dents, and covered dishes, and rooms full of sobbing outdoorsy guys, and so on.

But, by then it might be 6:10 am Pacific Time. And I didn’t have time to think about my family. Not now, right? No, I had to keep working. I had to stay in that other building and keep typing bullshit that I hoped would please my editor. Who is awesome.

So, I’d type and type. I’d crank and crank. I’d try and try. I’d want very much to go home, make hot milk, and watch Toy Story 2. So much, I’d want this.

I dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve. I sat back and knew I had to say something. I realized it wouldn’t be enough. Because another person already hit it on the head. On. The. Head.

Excuse me. Gotta go hug my daughter, again.

I mean, it wasn’t his fault that, a few hours after taking a normal dose of amoxicillin, he broke out in hives. And it wasn’t his fault that the nurse at the phone bank warned us we might need to bring him to the hospital. And it wasn’t his fault that I spent a good chunk of the night worried about his breathing, keeping my mind at ease only by distracting myself with other things.

Nothing came of it. He took some Benadryl and slept it off. We now know he’s allergic to penicillin. Another in a long line of firsts: baby’s first tooth; baby’s first step; baby’s first allergy.

Still didn’t help my disposition.

As parents, we watch our kids convinced they’re the most fragile humans ever conceived. Then, one day, we find out just how fragile they can be – and how quickly we can be driven to helplessness.

And then, I’ll walk onto the next room, or I’ll crawl into bed, and Kerrie will be there, and she’ll say, “You’re a good Daddy.”

And I’ll stop and realize how lucky I am. How lucky any of us are.

Because there are times when they ask of the world for me. But there’s never a time when I wouldn’t give it to them.

How’s THAT for sappy? I think I need another brewery tour.

Full disclosure: this is a direct rip-off from Dora the Explorer: after every puzzle is solved and the final treasure is discovered, Dora and Boots stare out into the preschool ether and ask everyone what their favorite part of the episode was.

First, Kerrie asks me. Then, I ask Kerrie. Then, we ask Sierra what Isaac’s favorite part.

Finally, we ask Sierra.

What makes this routine so special isn’t that we get to sit together and talk before going to bed – it’s that we get a firsthand look into what makes Sierra tick. Unfiltered, she offers a split second decision on what made her the happiest; ultimately, she’s letting us in on a secret that most kids hold tight, saying, “Mom, Dad, this is the point when you succeeded the most in being a great parent.”

It’s a daily affirmation that she’s enjoying life. It’s a constant reminder that, despite our not always being sure we’re doing the right thing, that Sierra loves us unconditionally. That she’s happy. That we’re doing okay.

“My favorite part of the day was picking strawberries yesterday.”

“My favorite part of the day was going to get ice cream.”

“My favorite part of the day was when Daddy picked me up from preschool and I saw him and I yelled ‘Daddy!’ and ran to him.”

Me too, Sierra. That was my favorite part too.

• Play-doh
• Crayola
• Fisher-Price
• MB Games

Outside of Crayola, I’d have spelled every one of these wrong. The last is the most surprising to me. Not Milton Bradley, which was a staple of my childhood, but MB Games. Flip the box over, and you’ll see a link to Hasbro.com. A quick Wikipedia search confirms that Milton Bradley was taken over by Hasbro.

In 1984.

My peanut butter is in my chocolate and all of that, right?

In other spelling foibles, Fisher-Price has a hyphen. I had no idea. Also, I swore Play-doh was spelled without the “y.” Funny – I’m convinced it’s spelled EVEN MORE wrong than it actually is.

This is all without mentioning the brand-less watercolors I wiped up yesterday.