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My toddler's not old enough to say 'Santa', but he's seen him: in the mall, in videos, as an ornament hanging from the (now fake) Christmas tree. Soon I'm going to have to deal with the Santa question: do I tell him he's real or what?

Sure, I have history with this. There I was, maybe two-and-a-half, and in the perfect Santa belief bubble. All the kids around me believed, no older siblings to spill the beans. Then what happened? My grandparents, of all people. "PV, you know there's no such thing as Santa, right?" All my parents could do was blush and look away.

Consequently, I have a love/hate relationship with Saint Nick. Love having him around, but don't like the confabulation around explaining how he can go to everybody's house in a single night. Once the kids learn math, it's all over. Or how about this: Why doesn't Santa deliver to little Jewish or Muslim kids? Get past that, and eventually a rogue third-grader is going to point a stubby finger at your kid and utter those devastating words: "baby still believes in Santa!" Then, your kid comes back to you. Accusingly. I don't want to deal with that. That's the thing with saying that Santa is real, eventually the truth will come out.

Now, maybe that's just my experience. Perhaps other kids can believe and then let Santa go like a disused binky, without any fuss. I don't know.

Yet, I continue to love Santa as a character of Christmas. What he represents. So much so, I've written stories for my children featuring the the jelly-belly elf. I don't want Christmas to be sanitized of Santa.

Where do you come down on the Santa question?

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For those who didn't win my last giveaway (that would be 99% of you), Karen Mcquestion is kindly hosting one for me right now. I'll put it to you this way: your chances are pretty good if you enter—just leave a comment over at her blog. Organic Enchilada, I'm looking your way.

Check out Karen's books while you're there.

As for me, Christmas took a sad turn. The poor Gummybear has been coughing and rashing for weeks now. The doc said it was probably caused by something recently introduced into the environment. Oh, I don't know, like a spruce Christmas tree? Yeah, getting rid of the evergreen just before Christmas was killer. Luckily, we knew someone who was jonesing for a real tree and traded us for an artificial one.

I miss the smell of real pine in the house at Christmas time, but I much prefer having a happy toddler. That's a trade I'd make, any day.

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There's a time when a dad has to have that 'talk' with his growing son. His body's changing and hair is growing in embarrassing places. *ahem* I imagined the conversation would go something like this:

"Hey, you're stinky. Your mother and sister don't like it. So shower, will you?"

Come to find out, the women had been beating him with the smelly stick all week—pretty good. Threatening to run him through a soapy Slip 'n Slide like a human car wash. Inviting the neighbors over and handing out sponges. Uploading the video to Youtube.* You know, sensitive stuff like that.

Dusty hasn't discovered girls, yet. For me, at least, that was the start of the every-day showering and the mastery of the hair dryer. Developing mad ninja skills with a stick of deodorant just followed from there.

I explained to him that unless he wanted to be confused with a homeless person, he was going to have to fake the whole civilization thing: wearing clean clothes, brushing his hair, and showering. Let go of the babyhood, and embrace adulthood.

I don't think that one 'talking to' will fix everything. As that wise shampoo bottle imparted to me, so many years ago when I was first learning to impress the fifth grade girls: lather, rinse, repeat.


* I might be exaggerating. A lot.

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I'm so excited, my first giveaway. I rented a billboard in Time Square for the occasion.

Yeah, my marketing budget was huge on this one.

And now...

*drum roll*




Winner is Taffy! Expect an email asking where you want me to send a copy of NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE. Congratulations.

And for everyone else: thanks for entering. I've gone over to every one of your blogs and I'm hoping to get to know all of you in the coming weeks. I love talking books!

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You know you've joked about it. One kid did it:

[Boy] tired of having his Mountain Dew stolen by a bully, filled the MD bottle in his backpack with urine and then watched in delight as the bully greedily helped himself to a big bottle.

Way to go, right?

Now the bully's family is threatening to sue. Over being a big dummy, I suppose? Just desserts had too much awesome sauce on top?

What?

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Welcome to my first giveaway! And blog hop! Can you tell I'm excited?!

To be eligible, all you have to do is be a follower of my blog and leave a comment on this post. That's it! You are then automatically entered to win a free copy of my book, Not Just for Breakfast Anymore.

Winner will be chosen the day after the giveaway ends on November 28. I'm thinking by the Gummybear, and on video. Yeah, I'm definitely Youtubing it.

And remember to hop to all the other participating blogs, as well. I know I will. That's over one hundred and fifty chances to win books!

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I'm interviewed over at Authors Unleashed. It's where Teensreadtoo.com spotlights writers for books they've reviewed.

Could it be true that my own pet pig's first litter box was a broiling pan? Check it out.

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Today's Subject: Superhero-ed Sno Balls

Usually Sno Balls are pink or white; colors frequently associated with twelve-year-old girls bathrooms. These are green—have Green Lantern (a superhero) on the box—and are called Glo Balls. Glowing green is a color usually associated with plutonium rods inside nuclear reactors.

Today's investigation: Are they truly a dessert for cadets of the intergalactic police force?


First fact: they don't really glo(w). Any and all luminosity was achieved via a flash. (Please note this refers to a camera flash and not a super hero by that same name.)


First bite analysis: coconut sprinkles, marshmallow outer covering, inside is chocolate cake with creme filling. Just like a Sno Ball. Burp had a mildly plastic aftertaste, almost waxy. Subject does not feel super powered.

Conclusion: They are just Sno Balls painted green.


Per FFC regulations, this post requires a disclaimer: Product was self-purchased and no compensation was received from Hostess or the Green Lantern Corp. Ingredients include 'beef fat' and should not be consumed by vegans or those allergic to fat or beef. Or glowing things.

Hostess and Green Lantern are trademarks of their respective multi-million dollar conglomerates. Whom, I'm sure, have excellent senses of humor.

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My book, for a shiny second, crept up into Amazon's Top 100 children's ebooks. Number 96. Yay!

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Me: What's your homework?
Dusty: Take a picture from the Internet and write sentences about it. *reads* A declarative, exclamatory, and interrogative.
Me: Be careful, there's dirty pictures on the Internet.
Dusty: But that would be easy: She has no clothes on. Wow! Does her mother know?

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Me: How about this movie? It's got Brad Pitt.
Sparkly: Saw it.
Me: Where?
Sparkly: Social Studies.
Me: It's based on a work of fiction. Involving gods and goddesses.
Sparkly: Yeah, wicked boring.
Me: How 'bout this one? It's got Chihuahuas...
Sparkly: Saw it. Spanish class.
Me: At school again? When did this happen?
Sparkly: Same week my class took a field trip to Taco Bell.
Me: *sigh*
Dusty: I saw all six Star Wars movies in school. It was awesome!

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The walls to my bedroom are now Ripe Apricot. And at three am, the orangey paint fumes set off the fire alarm.

Did you know that could happen? I didn't.

The waa-waa of the smoke detectors lifted me out of bed. The room was the dark of closed eyelids. Thinking it may be a fire, I grabbed the door knob—it wouldn't turn. I turned around and bumped into a wall, turned again into another wall. Like I was in a small box. I found the doorknob again—still wouldn't twist. It was like every nightmare you ever had.

The light came on. I was in the closet.

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A fun, realistic fiction story about a boy and his pig. The characters are well-developed, the plot is unique and keeps the reader’s interest in unique ways.

A nice review of my book, you should check it out. Thanks Teensreadtoo.com. And drop by their book blog while you're at it.

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I began playing organized basketball in the fourth grade. But the basketball experiences that shaped me much more were the pickup games played on the courts in the center of town. The action there was intense, yet there was never an adult in sight. We kids ran the show. Boston Globe Sunday Magazine

I don't remember as a kid, in a game of street hockey, having problems with dads beating the crap out of each other—like you hear now. Or cheating. If Johnny played dirty, he didn't play, okay? No appeals to the league, meetings. No adults required. And it wasn't that we weren't competitive. I had a poster the size of my wall of Bobby Orr scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup series of 1970. I was into hockey.

Now, when I entered high school and I was made to compete, I rebelled. You can put me in the outfield, and threaten me with not graduating, but you can't make me chase after the ball. Talk about killing the joy of the game. Gym coaches were the prison guards of my scholastic experience.  Then, after school, I would play Wiffle ball until the street lights came on.

What's the difference? The kids were in charge. We self-organized.

The other day, I was having a tire replaced. The owner of the shop called a distributor, asked for delivery and ended the conversation this way: "I didn't foul you. I rebounded it fair and square." That bounce of the ball occurred fifty years ago. In high school. Still couldn't let it go. I bet there was a real shiny reward at stake.

Yet, I couldn't tell you if any game of street hockey stood out. Except one: we played a bunch of middle-aged men in a pick up game. Our youth against their experience. Man, did they rub it in when they won. We were stunned. That's not how we played. We hip-checked each other and apologized later, and congratulated the winner (good game, good game), assured that it could probably be us next time.

I remember playing just for a win, not a trophy. The stakes were low. Now everyone gets a trophy, and I'm guessing the kids aren't fooled with this award inflation.  If one trophy is the problem, how are more trophies the solution? Who introduced trophies in the first place? My guess is not someone ten years old.

I'm wondering if taking adults out of kids' games is the answer. Along with the shiny.

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This is what Sparkly wanted for her birthday—a 32 gig iTouch. She didn't get one. Then she wanted to buy one herself, with her birthday money she got from her grandmother.

I said no.

It would have been easier to say yes. There's nothing wrong with an iTouch. I own every product that Apple ever made (minus the iPad). But spending windfalls is not the lesson I want Sparkly to grown up with. Instead, I proposed her saving some money from her paper route and matching those funds with this gifted money. That did not go over well.

But [insert ethnic grandmother name] doesn't mind!

Guess who was the one who taught me this lesson? Your grandmother. My mother. She's the reason I learned to save my whole life. Buy houses. Have money in the bank. Make two dollars and save one.

I may not remember what my mother gave me for my fourteenth birthday, but I remember her gift that lasted a lifetime. And I bet I wasn't happy at the time, either.

'Parent' may share some letters with 'pal', but it sure has a different job description.

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7:05 I can hear baby babble. Why is his mother still sleeping?

7:07 Oh, yeah. It's Dadurday: The day mom sleeps in.

7:08 Coffee!

7:09 What's does Gummybear eat? Hey, honey...oops.

7:10 I remember a mushy bowl of...stuff. Like a paste. Flour?

7:11 *snaps fingers* Babies drink milk. Yeah, that's what they do.

7:12 Where are the sippy cups? Hey, honey...oops.

7:13 More coffee!

7:14 It's been hours.

7:15 There goes a banana. Now what do I do?

7:16 Baby is banging on the bedroom door.

7:17 No instructions written anywhere.

7:19 Still banging. Now using a block.

7:20 I wonder if she's okay?

7:21 I should go in there. And bring the baby.

7:22 *opens door* Hey, honey...oops.

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Ahhhh! My waistband's too tight. My God, I'm going to have to double my running miles. Cut out cupcakes. Dump the extreme buttered popcorn. Join a gym. Does my HMO cover liposuction? Maybe.

Oh.

Heh.

I just over cinched my belt.

This moment of vanity panic was brought to you by PV Lundqvist. For the very finest in male narcissism. Your preferred choice.

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It is untrue that I've put the kitty food bowls on the dinner table. Sent myself flowers. Washed the floor. Okay, most of those aren't true.

What is true is that I never know what to do with myself without my kids around. My natural state is being tugged on. Maybe plug in the Xbox? Nah. Call up a friend? Do I have friends without kids?

*snaps fingers* I know—finish that novel. Opens the Macbook. So where was I? Type, type, type. Hmm. All the characters are missing their families.... Closes the Macbook. Seems that 'an empty lap' and 'no squabbling' is not happy making, after all. Not conducive to productive work.

So I've spent more time at my day job—because, damn it, if I'm not going to get anything done, I want to at least appear like I'm working. Get credit.

It is also untrue that there will be dirty dishes waiting. We have a dishwasher.

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I put the Gummy Bear to work, today. You should have heard the complaining:

1) I can't walk yet
2) I'm only awake two hours in a row
3) I still make in my pants
4) You're making this up; I can't talk yet!

Okaaaaay, I'll give him another year. Then it's chore time. Seriously, there is nothing cuter than a two year old carrying a plate as big as their chest. Toddle, toddle, smack plate on table. Cringe. You go through a lot of dishware this way, but I make it up by buying stock in Williams-Sonoma. It evens out.

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Since the hormone fairy waved her wand over my thirteen-year-old daughter Sparkly, there's been a lot of silences. Sullen ones. Distracted ones. Oh-I-left-my-ipod-on ones. Yet you can practically hear the hum of her thoughts. They just don't seem to want to come out.

Picture it: Sparkly looks just like me. Has my personality.  Should be simple, right? Just imagine what I would do, if I was a girl, and....yeah. Doesn't help. And unlike my son, Dusty—who will plop himself down on my lap and talk Legos all day long—I have to go seek out Sparkly. Find her in whatever thought-hole she might be at the time and try to coax her out. Sometimes this works. Sometimes it goes wrong.

Me: What'cha doing?
Sparkly: Making a fun quiz up.
Me: Want to try it on me?
Sparkly: If you saw a boy trying to pick up your girlfriend, would you A)....

This was not the conversation I wanted to be in. Hello, uncomfortable. And that's just it, isn't it? She's a woman and I'm a guy. In a sense, her archetypal guy. The one by which all others in her life will be measured. I didn't want to blow that responsibility. That's why I didn't want to answer the quiz. I was caught between the honest answer and the parent answer.

I'm still working out which is the better answer.

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The Book Oasis is the only place to find autographed copies of NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE on shelf. My neighborhood bookstore, how cool is that?

Say hello to Deb and Dan for me.

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Our Mommyhood had its relaunch party on twitter last night. To support the event, I gave away a free copy of my book, NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE.

The winner? Not Super...Just Mom. Congratulations.

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I have no words.

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