Surviving Narcissism Exploring life after marriage to a narcissist. Learning and thriving by sharing our story. – Jesse Blayne

This morning we woke to broken shortbread cookie bites and green sugar sprinkles strewn across the kitchen counter and along the floor.  A confused Barbie was standing erect in Will’s leprechaun trap.  More cookie bites were laying around Jen’s upturned trap.  No luck.  They still haven’t managed to catch a real leprechaun.

Since Will was five, our home has been annually visited by Larry the Leprechaun.  He leaves apples in Jen’s Crocs, stuffed animals in the fridge, bananas on the T.V., tips the furniture and generally wreaks havoc in a playful, good-spirited nature.  A couple years ago, the kids collaborated on a pretty brilliant trap.  The bait was a pile of coins.  On the morning of the 17th, we could see that the money was gone, and all that was left was a pair of leprechaun shoes.  That’s the closest they’ve ever gotten to actually catching Larry.

Will is a very literal fellow.  He has a single-mindedness that drives him to excel at skateboarding, skiing and golf.  It’s that same single-mindedness that makes it almost impossible for him to see the forest for the trees.  Trees, hell, he pretty much focuses on the pine needles or the dust on the  pine needles.  Jenny has a pretty broad lens.  She’s four years younger than her brother.  She’s going to figure out that Santa and Larry aren’t real long before her brother does.  I keep thinking Will is going to catch on and figure out that I’m really Larry, Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny.  But last night, we were getting ready for bed, and Will panicked.  “Dang.  Tomorrow’s the 17th and my trap isn’t done!”  He scurried around, grabbed a decorated paint can, a gawdy St. Paddy’s Day necklace, a handful of coins and some duct tape.  He definitely works better under pressure.  Jenny’s trap was completed a week ago and has been hanging – in the middle of the walkway between kitchen and dining room – from a nail.  She loaded it with a – now stale – slice of whole wheat bread and a piece of biscotti.  I figure I’ll wait a few years before telling her that the better enticement for a leprechaun would be a mug of beer.

As I’m watching Will race around the house, scrambling to put his trap together, I was asking myself some serious parenting questions.  Am I perpetuating a fun myth and prolonging the fantasies of childhood, or am I out-and-out lying?  I think I have been assuming that he would figure these myths out on his own.  At this point, I picture him looking in the mirror while shaving, and having the sudden realization that his mom is really the guy in the big red suit.

I think it’s safe to say that most parents lay awake at night contemplating their parenting skills.  I have a tape running through my mind that asks, “How much money should I be setting aside for the inevitable counseling they will need?  Was this a good idea to home school?  When do we have the sex talk?  Should I tell him about sex before I tell him about Santa?”

And a big one for me is this:  If I have no problem lying to them about Santa, Larry and all the other mythical characters of childhood, why am I honest with them about their dad?  Would their childhoods be happier living with the myth of a good father?  Would it allow them to be young and innocent (not that Will has a problem with maintaining his innocence)  a little longer if they weren’t dealing with the realities of who or how their dad is?  Am I putting some sort of weight on their shoulders by helping them to understand why their dad is the way he is?

My motive behind this honest dialogue with my kids is genuine.  I don’t set out to intentionally bad-mouth their dad.  I know the whole thing about how if someone says something disparaging about a parent, it’s as if they are saying that nasty stuff about me.  Trust me.  I’ve lived that.  I heard the disparaging things from other people, but my mom set a great example of never speaking poorly of our dad.  But I was confused by that.  If my dad didn’t come around or attempt to want to see us, and my mom never said anything bad about my dad, then maybe my dad didn’t come around because he just didn’t like me.  Those are some pretty vivid memories.  I was going to make damn sure that I would have a good explanation any time Will or Jen asked “How come?”  “How come dad said he’d come over and he doesn’t?”  “How come dad says he’s interested in what I like to do, but he doesn’t do it with me?”  “How come dad doesn’t like my hair like this?”  “How come dad won’t let me wear my pink snow boots?”  My sole purpose for this open exchange with my kids is so that they completely and unequivocally understand that whatever their dad’s reasons are, those reasons have absolutely nothing to do with Will and Jen, or their behavior, or their choices.

Tonight, I will lay awake in bed and re-evaluate my day as parent.  I will think about how I should probably have opted to take the money I’m spending on the cruise, and put it in savings for all the counseling bills.  Maybe I’ll even pat myself on the back for finally having figured out what motivates both of them to enthusiastically tackle lesson plans.  But more than that, I have to figure out what the Easter Bunny has in store for this year.