My Brunette Life as a Redhead: December 2017

Wednesday, December 20, 2017

No Makena, There Really isn’t a Santa Claus

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

***Spoiler Alert: The existence of the Jolly Old Elf, St. Nick, is disputed in this piece.

One of my strongest memories of middle-school took place around Christmas when I was in sixth or seventh grade. My class of about sixty students was split into two each year. Because our class was so small, after seven years of being together, I felt like I knew these kids better than my own extended family. In fact, I thought of them as my family.

On the day in question our teacher stood in front of our class and stated, “I expect that all of you realize now that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.” This unexpected Santa spoiler was followed by an audible gasp and sob. Clearly one student hadn’t known. This teacher just rocked a little girl’s world by stripping her of the magic of Christmas.

Of course, it being middle-school and the fact that middle schoolers can be insensitive a**holes, and that we all knew each other really well, the class laughed at and mocked the girl who dared to still believe in the beloved mythical figure that is Santa. I like to think that I stifled my laughter trying to spare her of embarrassment, but let’s face it, I was a middle school a**hole too, so I probably laughed.

At some point, I did feel bad for her. She was an innocent girl who loved to read and sing as she rode her bike around town. She had few friends if any. She was always picked last for teams during gym class. She stood-out and was considered to be weird. She and I had been friends early-on but drifted apart as her oddities became more evident and hanging out with her caused a stigma. I was having a hard enough time fitting-in, I couldn’t spare popularity points by associating myself with her. I told you I was a middle school a**hole.

My empathetic feelings about her broken-heart and presumed embarrassment resurfaced when I became a mother. I, like so many, indulged my kids with the fantasy of Santa. It is a fun tradition that makes Christmas magical. One of the best reasons to become a parent is to be Santa, right?

I believed this until I actually had to become Santa. Being Santa is exhausting. All of the subterfuge and lying is not as fun as one might think. It really is a yearlong job as you have to be keenly aware of things other adults say, lines in movies, and the constant questions that children have as they grapple with the ridiculousness that is the story of Santa.

The lies become complex making the story a convoluted journey that adults often lose track of only to be corrected by a three-year-old who remembers every single blessed detail. Back peddling and restating “facts” becomes the norm. Convincing your innocent child that she misheard or misremembered makes you feel a bit dirty and cruel as you try to keep the lie alive all in the name of the spirit of Christmas.

On top of explaining around every bend why a man or woman doffed in a Santa suit is “just a helper” and “of course there is only one true Santa,” we have now laden ourselves with the blasted Elf-on-the-Shelf.

Who thought of this torture? Not only do we have to stay up until all hours of the night on December 24^th assembling 10,000 pieces into a play kitchen praying that the kids don’t hear the hammering and drilling (but also secretly hoping they discover you so you never have to do this again) now we have to remember to move a pesky elf every night to some new spot in the house.

We tell our kids this magical elf flies back to the North Pole nightly to report to the chief elf about whether they have been naughty or nice. The elf returns before dawn landing in a new spot in the house.

If the elf just happens to be in the same spot in the morning, the sleepy-eyed children want to know, “Why is Pinto still there? That’s where he was yesterday.” Being an overtired and guilt filled mother, I attack with the comeback, “You must have been naughty so Pinto didn’t want to tell Santa. You better be good today.” Ugh, what a**hole move (middle school did prepare me for something), but it’s all in the name of keeping the magic alive. Right?

The elf saga has been made more complicated by creative but annoying folks who inundate Pinterest, Facebook, and Instagram with their ingenious ideas of how the scamp of an Elf-on-the-Shelf gets into trouble during the night. The elf might poop M&M’s into the toilet, cover the bathroom in shaving cream, or undecorate the Christmas tree.

These are indisputably cute little escapades for the elf. However, are you CRAZY!! Who has time to set-up these crime scenes? I barely have the energy to just move the elf from one spot to the other, now I have to think up and then execute shenanigans on a nightly basis.

Moreover, who on God’s once-green earth do you think is going to clean up that mess?

Seriously, this craziness must stop! Parents today are increasingly older. All of the twenty-something parents think it’s fun to challenge the aging mind and body of the older parent. It’s just cruel. Stop it!

Time to get back to my original point…

To avoid an incident similar to the one that scarred me (and probably that schoolmate) in middle-school, I decided that I would reveal the truth about Santa to my girls before they got to the age where they might be outed by a misguided teacher, and then mocked by their a**hole peers.

I revealed the greatest Christmas scam to my first girl around fifth grade. She took it amazingly well. She claims she already knew. Though she insists otherwise, I still can’t help but think I broke her heart just a little.

My second daughter, I told around the same time. She could have probably withstood another year, but let’s face it, I was tired of the lies and subterfuge. I couldn’t handle another year pretending to be a jolly old elf. Plus, that damn elf, Pinto, kept forgetting to fly back to the North Pole. It was really hard to tell my daughter day after day that she was naughty when, in truth, I fell asleep before her, so Pinto stayed put.

We broke the news to her after that Christmas. She sat and listened to my explanation. I went on to tell her about the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny. She sat still and stared into space trying to make sense of all I told her. I asked her if she had any questions and she shook her head but didn’t move.

After a few moments passed, she looked at me and confidently said, “I think this year I am going to keep a list of the things I want so I won’t forget what to ask Santa for next year.” With that, she got up and walked away.

My daughter’s steadfast refusal to not believe continues two years later. She still leaves her teeth for the Tooth Fairy and awaits the Easter Bunny in the spring. We keep reminding her that they are mythical figures who don’t exist. She just smiles and looks at us with pity and knowing. Perhaps there really is a Santa Claus. I better get my list in the mail quick, there are only a few days left.

Merry Christmas

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Rise-Up: The Tickle Me Elmo Rebellion

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

He's Back. Be afraid. Be very afraid

The holiday season is upon us. You know, that time of year when parents, grandparents and loved ones fervently search for the perfect gift for the beloved child in their lives. They wait, impatiently, for the annual toy catalogs to arrive, snatching them out of the hands of disgruntled mail carriers who begrudge being laden down with retail propaganda.

As they leaf through the soft pages of the recycled paper, ink stains their fingertips while they scan through the descriptions, only pausing when they read “educational.” Bingo! Not any toy will do. No, the perfect toy inevitably requires batteries and purports to make kids smart.

As a traveling pediatric therapist, I have been in the homes of hundreds, maybe thousands, of families. I have observed how parents engage and interact with their children. I have witnessed the look of pride that lights-up their faces when they show me the mountain of toys that have encroached upon every living space of the house.

As I try to mask the look of horror on my face caused by the sensory overload I am experiencing thanks to all of the beeping, squawking, roaring and screeching emanating from the bowels of the toy boxes, I try to be supportive and complimentary. This becomes most challenging when the parents, beaming with pleasure, raise above their heads the granddaddy of them all, the “learning” toy.

What can we blame for the rise of the obnoxious toys and the fall of the basic wooden block? Tickle Me Elmo of course.

The original Tickle Me Elmo first appeared onto our toy shelves in 1996 (a simple google search can confirm this fact). As he leapt off the shelves into the hands of enamored shoppers, and then became the impetus for many a tug-of-war competition in aisles of toys stores on Black Friday, all the other toys were banished to The Land of Misfit Toys.

Don't be fooled by the "free" battery offer...They won't last long

From that point forward, the success of the microchipped and battery-operated toy corrupted our playthings, our minds and our sanity. No toy was safe. Little people barns came with ready-made animal sounds; horses on sticks clipped and clopped and even whinnied; books read to us through animated mouths of creepy teddy bears; baby dolls ate, cried and pooped. No more need for imagination, all the kids had to do was push a button

Every parent of small children has experienced the headaches that come from the never-ending stream of irritating sounds from high pitched Elmo giggles to eardrum bursting siren wails. Every tired mom appreciates that moment in the evening when the kids are in bed and the toys have been collected and stowed for the night. Just as she pours a glass of wine, breaths deep, basking in the silence, a sound emerges from the bottom of the toy box. That undeniable giggle is mocking her and reminding her, You did this. You bought those toys.

The 2017 version of the Tickle Me Elmo is being stocked on the shelves in toy stores as you read this. It is “new and improved” with the biggest selling point being the coveted on/off switch.

I say, Rise Up! Let us turn-off all these annoying toys. Let us rip-out the batteries and silence them forever. Let us walk past that overpriced giggle machine and all the other battery-operated toys and find the aisle with the retro toys that are making a resurgence.

Rebel against the “educational learning” toys. Go for the wooden blocks and puzzles. Find the quiet dolls that just sit still never needing a diaper change. Let your kids blow bubbles with their very own lips. Even let them peddle a bike, gasp. Search for the toys that develop imagination, support language development and build muscle strength and coordination.

Remember, the parent is the child’s best teacher. You are the best interactive educational toy your child will ever have. Talk, read, play, sing, experience life. Think of the money you’ll save on batteries. Use that windfall to by a nice chianti. Sip it as you sit in true silence after the kids, brains full of new ideas and knowledge, bodies tired from exerting energy, and hearts full because they got to play with you, are fast asleep dreaming about tomorrow.

Just a Few Toy Ideas:

*play kitchens and accessories

*baby dolls and accessories

*play tools or cleaning supplies

*blocks that stack or link

*sports equipment

*non-battery-operated ride on toys, bikes, scooters, etc…

*books

*music

*craft supplies

*puppets

*felt or magnet boards

*easel or chalkboard

*modeling clay or dough

*science experiment books/kits

*dress-up clothes

*Mr or Mrs Potato Head

*board games

*puzzles

*doll houses and accessories

*plastic animals

*cars and trucks

*wooden trains and tracks

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

What’s in a Name: The Name Game

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

I truly appreciate a unique name. How could I not? Being saddled with the surname Redhead resulted in a lifetime of me vacillating between loathing it and loving it.

Currently, I am on the side of loving it. In fact, I adore the name so much that I encumbered my girls with it in a too-long hyphenated last name. My mother-in-law, an old-school thinker, refuses to acknowledge my girls’ last name. She addresses all of their cards using her family's name. She's not alone in her resistance to accepting progressive naming practices.

My husband wanted to be a Redhead nearly taking my name upon our marriage. The only regret I have about our marriage is caving to the popular outrage, choosing to avoid the unrest the moniker Jim Redhead would have caused among our family and friends.

Ironically, a few weeks after we signed all the documents making us married and sealing Jim’s fate as remaining a Kriston, the Today Show featured a newly married couple who had done what we were too weak to do, the husband took the wife’s surname. Of course, it was some ubiquitous name like Smith or Jones. Just imagine how much more interesting the interview would have been with a man who chose to become a Redhead.

Instead of remaining a Redhead after marriage, I became a Kriston. This comes with its own special consequences. Everyone from my coworkers, to my doctors, to my financial advisor call me Kriston not Liz. The fact that my last name happens to also be a female first name is too much for their brains to navigate. I am pretty sure no one calls my husband Kriston by mistake. It can be a bit infuriating.

When I was growing-up, Redhead was a rare name. Now it seems the Redheads of the world have procreated at a rapid pace. In fact, I did one of those government searches to find money that I may have forgotten about (not likely) and found that Elizabeth Redhead had $843.00 in a bank in San Francisco. I completed the required forms, hoping that when I left California two and a half decades ago, broke and sad, I overlooked a small fortune in a savings account at the Bank of America.

Weeks passed when I received a call from a clerk who inquired about my claim. Mixed with hope and doubt she inquired further into my claim. I felt she was rooting for me. She asked me to clarify my date of birth. Then she revealed that the Elizabeth Redhead who left unclaimed money in the B of A was a nonagenarian. Though disappointed, we were both tickled by the fact that there are two Elizabeth Redheads in the world.

A recent Google search unearthed a third Elizabeth Redhead who has a Twitter account which lead me to her LinkedIn account. Apparently, she is looking for a job in hospitality. So, if you know anyone hiring, I can vouch for her based on her name alone.

Many ask about the origin of my surname. My first answer is always, my father…. That usually takes a minute before they reward my lame joke with a half-chuckle. Then I tell them it is Anglo-Scottish, which is kind of boring.

Acquiring my unique name via family heritage makes it a little less silly. Having had to deal with the minimal amount of teasing that I was subjected to by unimaginative middle-school boys made it clear that purposefully giving kids funny names can be a bit cruel. Not only do unusual names attract teasing they cause confusion with pronunciation and spelling. It makes me wonder what the heck people are thinking before they fill-out their babies' birth certificates.

Based on the negative reactions to the name middle name we gave our second daughter (her fathers first name as her middle name), we crossed the line into strange names. Apparently, calling a girl James is too much to handle in modern times. Curiously, my mother Andrea’s (named for her maternal grandfather Andrew) middle name is Jo, a nod to her paternal grandfather.

Arguments over girl versus a boy names are common. However, history shows us that the crossover has been happening for decades no, centuries. Hailey, Hilary, Viviene, Beverly, Meredith are girl names that used to be given to boys. So why can’t James be used for a girl too. Plus, didn’t Jessica Simpson name her girl James. That’s all the evidence I need.

In fact, celebrities have been naming their kids increasingly bizarre names. Checkout some here: http://www.sheknows.com/parenting/articles/810424/top-25-weird-celebrity-baby-names

The Name Game
By: Shirley Ellis

Beyond strange names, we have bizarre spellings. People must believe that creative phonics morphs a common name into something special. Unfortunately, they overlook the fact that pronunciation remains the same resulting in unneeded confusion. For example, the name Madeline has been spelled: Madylyn or Mattylyn or Maddalynn. Why? They all sound like Madeline. Children burdened with names that have alternate spellings will waste countless hours correcting the misspelling of their name.

I have encountered many names over the years that are real head-scratchers for a variety of reasons. Some of my favorites are below:

Though a common name these days, this name which is heaven backwards caused me to nearly wet my pants with laughter the first time I heard it. How many Nevaeh’s do you know?

My mother had a colleague whose surname sounded like wonderlick. Rather than using his full given name, Richard, he opted to answer to the nickname Dick. Go ahead, put it together….

Have you heard the urban legend of the little Leer girl who was named Crysta Shanda? I applaud the creativity, but wonder if that name lit a path for future successes.

Romeo: By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,

Because it is an enemy to thee:

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

Just remember, when you are selecting a name for your child, one day a teacher will have to identify her at roll-call; announcers will need to pronounce her name at sporting events; principles will attempt to call him up to receive a diploma; and employers will want to address her at job interviews. Perhaps the best way to be creative is to be a true rebel. Take a chance and christen your child Mary or Bob. Mic drop! Mind blown!

My Brunette Life as a Redhead

Wednesday, December 20, 2017