“Mom, how does Santa get to every kid’s house in one night to deliver presents?”

“Well, Santa actually sends out helper Elves to different houses in the world and they build each family’s presents in their basement. Our elf’s name is Ralph and he is very shy.
He has always arrived two weeks before Christmas and tediously works until Christmas Eve to make sure that everyone gets the gifts that they asked for.”

“Can I speak to Ralph, Mom?”

“Ralph does not speak, but he definitely hears you when you speak to him. In fact, he told me to ring this bell ornament anytime you want to know he’s around.

“What does Ralph the Elf look like, Mommy?”

“Ralph gave me an ornament that he carved and painted. It looks very much like him and he wants me to hang it on the tree so you can see what he looks like on Christmas morning. Just remember to be a good girl and Ralph will always come back the next year.”

Jake: "Dad, where do people go when they die?"
Father: "well there is this place called heaven, where everyone who behaved on Earth goes."
Jake: "when did people start going there?"
Father: "when the first person on earth died Jake."
Jake: "then wouldn't it be crowded now?"
Father: "No."
Jake: "Why not?"
Father: "Because Heaven is endless, it's so big it can't run out of room."
Jake: "What if Grandpa gets lost and can't find Grandma?"
Father: "They have a sorting area; they put people in the right place."
Jake: "what if they accidently put them in the wrong place?"
Father: "It's Heaven, there are no accidents"
Jake: "How do you know?"
Father: "Everyone knows that."
Jake: "Why didn't I?"
Father: "I hadn't told you yet."
Jake: "Who told you?"
Father: "My father?"
Jake: "Who told him?"
Father: "His father"
Jake: "How did he find out?"
Father: "Well one day an angel accidently fell from heaven and told some people all about it."
Jake: "You said there are no accidents in Heaven"

'So, in South Africa it is summer in December?’ she asked, looking up at me.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Hmmm. That’s weird. And what about Christmas?’

‘Well, let me tell you about African Christmas,’ I said, warming to the subject.

‘In Africa we had Christmas on the 25th June. Africans have to you see, because everyone knows Christmas is in winter. And winter in Africa is in the middle of the year. When I was little, like you are now, and living in South Africa, we used to put the Christmas tree up and wait for Santa in the middle of the year, and children in Africa still do that. I think it make things easier for Santa too. He only has to do half the world at a time.’

She looked at me, eyes and mouth wide open.

‘And New Years Eve is on the 1st July too.’

‘No way,’ she said. ‘Really?’

I am ashamed to say that I did not correct her and sent her off to school with her new, worldly information, to share with all the other 6 year olds.

As if having an African mother really from Africa wasn’t enough.

“SCREEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!”

“Oh my goodness Brooke what is the matter!”

“Get it out, get it out, get it out!”

“Get what out honey?”

“There’s a frog in the pool! Get it out!”

“Brooke you are being ridiculous! That frog will not hurt you it is the size of your pinky toe! Now stop your screaming and get in!”

“But Mommy it will eat me!”

“I have no intentions of chasing a tiny harmless frog Brooke. Besides, this pool is his.”

For the first time in her five years of existence she is speechless. For a moment anyway.

“What do you mean Mommy?”

“This is the frog’s pool Brooke. He just lets us swim here.” I can’t believe I’m keeping a straight face.

“Get him out Mommy.”

“Brookie if I get him out and he gets mad because we threw him out of his own pool he may leave and take his pool with him. Now do you want him to take the pool away?”

Big blue inquisitive eyes are boring a hole in me for what seems like an eternity. Finally she answers.

“No."

"What’s his name Mommy?”

“Err…Bob, Bob the frog. Now be careful getting in and don’t squish Bob.”

Son:
Mommy, why don't I have a daddy?

Mother:
Sweetie, your daddy’s gone.

Son:
Where did he go?

Mother:
Your daddy went away-- to war.

Son:
What’s war?

Mother:
You daddy fought the bad guys to keep us safe.

Son:
Oh-- Mommy?

Mother:
Yes?

Son:
When will he be back?

Mother:
He won’t, he’s in heaven now.

Son:
Can I go to heaven?

Mother:
No sweetie, not yet.

Son:
I want to see daddy, why is he in heaven?

Mother:
Your daddy died fighting the bad guys. Now it’s time for bed.

[Phone rings]

Mother:
Hello?

Frank:
Hey.

Mother:
Frank? Is that you?

Frank:
Yeah, it’s me. Can we talk? I want to make it work this time.

Mother:
You left me—you left us. And for what, to be with whatever her name was. Your Son is asking questions-- I can’t do this again, not this time.

Frank:
I changed.

Mother:
Three years Frank, you haven’t called in three years; he was barely 14 months old. I have to go.

Frank:
But

Mother:
Please don’t call back-- goodbye Frank.

[Hangs up phone]

Son:
Mommy, who was that?

Mother:
Just a friend-- now lets say your prayers.

The smell is nearly intoxicating. Wafting from the kitchen like a homespun specter from a distant era. Fresh baked bread.
Two small boys literally begin to tremble as the butter begins its molten trek across the pockets of doughy heaven.
"Daddy", begins my eldest, "Why does it always taste better fresh?"
I give an off the cuff remark about the love being baked in - just so.
The barrage of "why" "what if's" and "how comes"gives me ample opportunity to hook em, set that hook and reel'em in.
And so it goes . Bread comes from flour which comes from wheat. Frozen bread follows that formula. My children will forever believe that frozen bread dough comes from Winter Wheat. Grown in snow . Harvested by Eskimoes. Flown by Reindeer. All for them, so that when the butter drips from their beautiful smiles, I can say to no one in particular... "GOTCHA".