The impending Christmas season offers parents an extra dose of authority over our kids. Usually, we only have our own weight to throw around, but for the next few weeks, we also have Santa's considerable heft to use to our advantage. Santa is watching ... "If you don't stop eating the Play-Doh, I will tell Santa in our nightly phone conference." ... "Santa came by while you were at school and said that you should sleep all night in your own bed and stop going into Baby's room to paint with the diaper cream." That sort of thing.

So it should be the most joyous time of year for parents of young children. Unfortunately, I seem to be the one getting into trouble lately, and getting tattled on. If you ask MJ, I'm always doing something wrong, and Santa won't be bringing me anything this year. Recently, during her Second Cold of the 2008 School Year (for those of you counting at home), with her nose running like a faucet, her voice sounding like Marge Simpson and eyes as red as Elmo's fur, she begged me to take her for a walk on what was a too-blustery day. I refused. First came the tears. "No? Can't go for walk? Nooooo!" (Pronouns always take a beating when MJ is having a meltdown.)  Then came the tattling, wherein she stomped to the bottom of the stairs and shouted indignantly upstairs to Randy's office: "Daddy! Daddy! Mommy said can't go for walk! Oh no!"

Another example: "Daddy! Daddy! Mommy said no cupcake! I want cupcake!"

But my favorite whistleblower tale is this one: We purchased a few toys and treats to fill shoeboxes that MJ's class was sending to less fortunate children for the holidays. I would like to tell you that my 3-year-old is a fountain of generosity, but this would be a bald-faced lie. Don't get me wrong: She's as sweet as the day is long, but if there is a box of Lightning McQueen crayons in the house -- as there was on this day -- she can smell them before she even sees them, and she goes in for the kill. Until Mommy comes in for the buzzkill, that is.

"MJ, put those back. Remember? We're giving those to other boys and girls who don't have as much as you do."

"Oh noooo! Not mine? (Heaving great sobs) But ... I ... wa-nt ... them! I ... wa-nt ... Light-ning ... Mc-Queen ... cray ... ons!"

She spent a good 20 minutes boo-hooing over the unfortunate chid's good fortune and her bad luck (Nobel Peace Prize, here we come!), and then she seemed to get over it, as she usally does. Until two or three hours later, that is, when we were eating dinner.

"I'm done," she declared, "and I need to call Grammy."

I dialed the number and handed her the phone, because I truly like nothing better than to listen to a grandchild-grandparent phone conversation, which generally goes something like this:

Grammy: Hello?

MJ: (silence)

Grammy: Hello? Is this MJ?

MJ: (in a whisper) Hi.

Grammy: What are you up to?

MJ: (silent pacing with phone to ear)

Grammy: Huh?

MJ: (more slient pacing)

Grammy: Well, are you going to say anything?

MJ: (hands phone to Mommy)

Today, however, she had an agenda. I read an article not long ago on how the most important thing to teach kids about tattling is not when to tell on someone or what to tell, but who to tattle to. It seems MJ also read the story and decided to dump Daddy for a more sympathetic tattling vessel.

"Grammy," she said, building up her argument with the surprisingly convincing tone of her voice -- and the use of pronouns, "Mommy won't let me have the Lightning McQueen crayons."

"Oh, well that's the saddest thing I've ever heard. Poor MJ."

"Yeah. 'Cause I jus' wanted the crayons. 'Cause they're mine."

"Oh my goodness. Poor thing."

And thus a new alliance was born to record all the ways in which life is unfair. Grammy might have to get a beeper.

Beth appears Tuesdays on TriangleMom2Mom. Read more about Beth at her blog MotherBunker.