Category: the peep

“Dear Tee Tee & Uncle (Beloved),

Thank you for the tea set and the glitter pens. You are so great and I love you so much. You’re the greatest of all.

Piper”

This was in the mail yesterday. We’d given Piper a little espresso “suitcase” for Christmas — two tiny espresso cups and saucers, two tiny spoons, all decorated with sprightly French girls, walking their dogs, riding their scooters — and she just FLIPPED for it. We told her it was for “tea.” After that, she spent the whole afternoon walking around with her tea suitcase, sitting with it, hugging it. She simply could not be parted with this new infusion of girliness into her life. She asked my sister, “Mama, do we have any tea?” My sister said no. (Uhm, dear heart, could you please get up and LOOK at least?) So I got up and started rummaging around in the pantry cupboard and — TA DA! — tea. Not the greatest tea, it was some kind of apple spice tea, but Piper didn’t care. She was, you know, “so escited.” As usual.

So I heated some water and made us tea. Then I took some of the chocolate muffins a neighbor had brought over and sliced them into small, tea-cake sized pieces, explaining to Piper that when you have “tea,” you have tiny little cakes and sandwiches that you eat, too. Her eyes were big as saucers, “Really?” “Yup, it’s gonna be good, huh?” “YEAH, Tee Tee!”

Once everything was poured and ready, we sat down and I watched her closely. I watched my niece — who daily has to play rough and tumble with her big brothers as a necessity of survival — suddenly transform into this proper young lady who drinks tea. I mean, she sipped daintily at her cup; she raised a pinky; she changed her voice, calling me “dahling” and “madam” in a vague British accent; she took delicate bites of chocolate muffin — muffin that, just a few hours before, I’d seen smeared all over her flushed and shining cheeks. I didn’t model any of this behavior. She just started doing it. The tea, frankly, tasted flat and old, probably because it was, but she just sipped and murmured with her face close to the cup, “Oooh, Tee Tee. This is soo delicious.”

And it really was, you know?

At my sister’s on Sunday, we were all sitting around the table, seeing who could do what facial “tricks” — you know, who could make their tongue a hot dog, roll their tongue over, wink both eyes individually, etc. This all started because I had a vague recollection of learning in high school biology that these thing were all genetic, that if you could wiggle your ears, for instance, at least one of your parents must be able to do it as well. So the nephews and niece and their parents immediately began seeing who could do what. It was hilarious, really. You know, grown adults, children, everyone, just sitting around a table on a Sunday afternoon, making hot dog tongues.

In the middle of all of this goofiness, Piper suddenly blurted, “There’s a boy in my kinnergarden class who can put his tongue in his nose! I saw him do it and he said it tastes like chicken!”

She said it with dead-on timing. Perfect delivery. Didn’t start giggling or laughing because she didn’t think she was saying anything funny; she was simply sharing this deeply astounding news. But the rest of us — died. We were gone. Her look of epiphany, of “wow, snot tastes like chicken!?” was just too much to bear.

For the next five minutes, falling over, gone.

Piper (obsessed with her new pink suitcase): Mama, how did Santa know I didn’t have a suitcase?

Her mom: Oh, well, he’s just smart that way.

Piper: That is just so SWEET of him!

*****

Piper: Mama, does God have a missus?

*****

Piper (standing on a chair, holding her dad’s face in her hands as he’s leaving for work): Remember, Daddy. Change da world.

I love how she thinks about others, this kid. How many kids think of Santa as sweet? How many kids wonder if God’s alone or not? How many kids think about changing the world??

Okay. I’m totally biased, but she’s always blowing me away.

(Remember this, peeps? From Christmas 2004 ….. uhm, how do I get myself into these situations?)

So, I’m going to hell. Yesterday, I had a phone conversation with my 4-year-old niece where I pretended to be Santa Claus.

Yup. And this blog is now my cyber confessional.

Here’s the scene: My sister and I were on the phone. In the background, I heard Piper saying she wanted to "talk on da phone." Now, she didn’t know who my sister was talking to, and once she said hello, something …. happened to me. I spontaneously, inexplicably found myself saying, in the single WORST man-voice imitation of all time, "Ho Ho Ho! Pii-perrr …. this is Saaanntaa!"

(When I re-enacted it later for My Beloved, he couldn’t look directly at me. He simply cringed and declared, "Uhh, you sound more like a ghost. Or the Movie Phone guy.")

But it’s TRUE. I DID.

So I truly thought there was no chance — NO CHANCE — that she’d fall for it. Of course, the jig would be up instantly. I mean, I’d never been able to fool her with a "voice" before. But then there was an audible gasp on the other end of the phone. I waited for her to say, chidingly, "Tee Tee, I know it’s you." But she didn’t. Her little, speech-classed voice excitedly said:

"Santa?! Hi, Santa!"

(Ohhhhhh, nooo. Flames of hell tickling my toes.)

I had a split second to decide. I was so sure she’d already be laughing at me and saying, "You so funny, Tee Tee." But once I realized she was actually believing me, I had to keep going. I mean, what was I going to DO? Stop in the face of such excitement and lamely say, "Ha ha ha. Just kidding, Piper"?

So girding my dubious wits for this festive fraud, I bellowed:

"Have you been a good girl, Pii-perrr?"

"Oh, yes, Santa. I be good," she breathed.

"Well, why don’t you tell Sanntaa what you want for Christmas?"

Holy MOLY, I sounded stupid. The hellfires were spreading. So was the sweat. At that point, I just prayed that she’d keep believing.

She said something I couldn’t quite make out, so I just replied:

"Welll, o-kaaay. Sanntaa is writing that down. What else do you want for Christmas, Pii-perrr?"

I almost cried when she said, simply, "Dust a toy."

I had to pause to take a breath.

"What kind of toy, Pii-perrr?"

"Dust a toy," she repeated.

I told her I was writing that down, too. I was about to lose it. I wasn’t sure if I’d melt into tears or laughter, but one of them was imminent.

"So, Pii-perrr, are you going to leave Sanntaa some cookies to eat?"

"Oh, yes, Santa. I wiw!"

"Ho Ho OHH, that’s good. Sanntaa likes cookies!"

(Seriously, Movie Phone guy, watch out.)

"Okay," she said softly.

Finally, I said, "O-kaay, Pii-perrr. I’m coming to your house on Christmas Eve. But you need to be asleep. Okaaay, Pii-perrr?"

"Oh, yes, Santa. I be sweeping for shore."

"That’s good. You make Sanntaa verry haappy. HO HO HO! Bye Bye, Pii-perrr!"

Oh …. Sweet …. Lord …. forgive …. me. Fraud over, I collapsed back on the sofa to catch my breath. My sister was back on the line.

"Oh, thank you for calling, Santa." I could tell she was stifling laughter. She was gently coaxing Piper to leave the room so we could talk, but apparently, my niece was frozen in place, a wide-eyed, open-mouthed statue.

I told my sister, "Tell her Santa needs to talk to mommy about some Christmas surprises." (Refer to forgiveness plea above.)

She did, and Piper bolted from the room. My sister was in hysterics.

"How did you do that without laughing?"

"I don’t know!" I wailed.

"I could hear you. That was the worst voice I’ve ever heard you do."

"I know!" I wailed.

"All those years of acting and THAT’S what you come up with?"

"I KNOW!" I wailed.

It’s true — it was simultaneously the best AND worst performance I’d ever done.

"Well, I don’t know how she bought it, but she did. Her eyes were bugging out of her head."

My sister called this morning with news of the aftermath of SantaScam 2004. Apparently, immediately after the phone call, my elated niece insisted on calling her Nana and Pop-Pop to tell them Santa had called. She’s also quite adamant about the cookies. My sister tried to fob off some fudge on Santa, but Piper would have none of it. "No, Mommy. Santa wants cookies. He tole me. He tole me!"

I know. I know. Santa’s going to hell.

And without any cookies, too.