Lying about Santa; Role Reversal With My Kid

Some news!

    "The Golden Sky" now has an overall rating of 4.78 out of 5.  Pretty neat. Go here to check that out: The Golden Sky

    Also, the iPad2 Giveaway is ending soon.  If you didn't know this before, Cade and I are funding it ourselves in honor of Zeke.  If you'd like to win, please check the bar above this post.  (I really want that beautiful piece of technology to go to a good home.)
    The last announcement of the day is that "The Golden Sky" is still on sale.  From now until January 6th (the Epiphany), my eBook is listed as 99 cents HERE on Smashwords and for kindle it's 2.99 HERE on Amazon.


Onto the post of the day:
   Yesterday the Hippie came up to me.  "Aren't you going to tell me how proud you are of me?  Aren't you going to say how amazing and beautiful I am?"
    "You are so amazing."  I hugged her.  "And . . . Wow, aren't you beautiful today.  Did I mention that I'm so proud of you."
    "Why?"
    Then I paused and whispered, "What's the exact reason you wanted me to be proud of you again?"
    She put her hands on her hips and sighed.  "It's because the Scribe just had a birthday.  She got everything she could possibly dream of and I'm STILL happy for her."
    Well, wasn't she the brave sort, a genuine warrior.  "Now that you mention it, I am so proud of you because of that."
    After all, this is what the Scribe got, an art kit (from Fishducky) and a fancy bedroom.

    "Thanks," she said.  "Yeah, did you see poor Johnny at the party?  He wasn't happy at all.  Some kids get so jealous; it's terrible."
    I nodded.  It was about that time when the Scribe entered the room.  I didn't really feel she should be part of the conversation, but that sweet ten-year-old started cleaning the kitchen.  It was strange especially since she's the biggest mess maker I've ever known. If you don't believe me, I say this phrase at least once a day, "It took hours cleaning the kitchen, and now I find THIS over HERE?!!"
    So, the Hippie continued talking and the Scribe listened.  "You know, Hippie," she said stuffing all the bills into various drawers.  "You should be happy for other people.  Plus, Christmas is coming and you'll get some great things."
    "But Johnny said everyone's poor right now.  He heard it straight from his parents.  The economy's even hurting Santa and his leprechauns."
    The word 'leprechauns' didn't phase me, but I still found one part disturbing.  "Did you just say 'economy?'"  She's seven for crying out loud!
    "Yeah, every kid knows that word . . . But even if Santa isn't poor too, I still won't get anything, not even a box of mints from Britain," the Hippie said.
    "Why's that?" I asked. 
    She looked at the Scribe who shoved my glass figurines into the cupboard.  "What are you doing?" I asked the Scribe.
    "Cleaning."  She shrugged.
    Then the Hippie whispered so the Scribe hopefully wouldn't hear her.  "It's because I lied about Santa.  Some kid at school said I'd never get a DSI, so I thought of those angels visiting people in the Bible . . . and I made up a story.  I told him Santa visited me late at night--like a glowing angel--and told me he was giving me a DSI.  It seemed like a great lie at the time until I remembered that song . . . He knows when you're sleeping.  He knows when you're awake.  He knows when you've been bad or good . . .  Mom, I feel like an idiot. He knows I've been bad NOT GOOD.  What kind of kids lies about Santa?!"
    The Scribe snickered in the corner.  "You can kiss that DSI goodbye-bye."
    "That is not funny,"  I said, stood and set my coke on the counter she'd just cleaned.
    The Scribe gaped at my drink.  "What, may I ask, are you doing?  It took hours cleaning the kitchen, and now I find THIS over HERE?!!"  She held the coke up to me and then paled.  
    "Oh, my gosh," the Hippie giggled.  "It's happening.  My teacher said I'd turn into my mother someday, but it looks like it happened to your first!  There are things worse than lying about Santa!  I could be the oldest!"
    "How rude," the Scribe said, then got a glimmer in her eye.  Still holding the coke and acting so old, she pointed at the Hippie, "I have a mind to wash your mouth out with soap, young lady."
    I felt pretty bad at this point, especially since I realized I didn't know where the Scribe had hidden the power bill.
    "But what can I do about Santa?" the Hippie asked.  "Can I send him an apology e-mail?"
    "I guess, but how do you know his e-mail address?"
     "Oh, I found it online yesterday.  It asked for my address and phone number, but I just gave my first name.  I didn't want Santa thinking I was super dumb."
     "Nice," I said.  "Very nice."


    Do you ever have moments like this?  Do your kids fight?  
    Did you ever fight with your siblings?
    Oh and the most important question of all, what should the Hippie do about Santa?