I don’t know where they came from. Perhaps my mother. Maybe my
sisters. Or maybe it’s just me.
I don’t know where they came from. Perhaps my mother. Maybe my sisters. Or maybe it’s just me. But I have issues with the big, jolly guy. I mean, I admire him. Not many people can eat as many cookies as he eats in one night and not suffer from severe sugar overload. And nobody cares less about body image than Santa. He’s a poster boy for weight-challenged people like me.
But I still have issues.
First of all, there’s that whole sit-on-Santa’s-lap-and-take-a-picture-thing. It sounds great. And it is great. But isn’t it a total contradiction of what we teach our kids all year long?
I’ve invested a lot of time, effort and yelling so that Junior at least pretends to have some manners. I can’t tell you the number of times I have told Junior that demanding toys from people and burping the alphabet in public are prime examples of bad manners.
I’ve also invested a lot of time, effort and yelling in teaching Junior about strangers. I’m like a broken record. Do not talk to strangers. Do not accept candy from strangers. Do not, under any circumstances, consent to sit on a stranger’s lap.
And what’s the first thing I do during the holidays? I rush my kid to the Gilroy chamber of commerce, tell him to sit on a stranger’s lap, demand a ton of presents from said stranger, smile for the camera and then grab a candy cane when he’s finished.
It makes no sense.
And then there are the pictures themselves. Look, I’m an OK mom. My son bathes as frequently as any 6-year old boy who prefers to stink so the girls won’t like him. And, yes, sometimes he does pick out his own clothes, which means that during this week’s rainstorm my son wanted to go to school in his swimsuit so his “real clothes” wouldn’t get wet.
But before the Santa picture I make an effort. Junior takes a bath. He washes his hair and uses soap on all parts of his body, including his feet. I trim his fingernails—which totally ticks him off. It’s hard to pick up little, tiny LEGO pieces when you don’t have fingernails. And I even pick out his clothes–a sweater, nice slacks and socks that actually match.
Everything is wrinkle-free. His cowlicks are slicked down with industrial strength hair gel, for pete’s sake. So you’d think Junior would be looking pretty spiffy for his picture with big guy.
And you’d be wrong.
Because the child in the picture isn’t mine. Oh, it looks like Junior. It could be his twin. But this is not the little boy who took a long bath just before we left. No, this little boy has hair sticking out in fourteen different directions. His shirt is stained with what looks like grape juice. There’s a big rip in the knee of his wrinkled khaki slacks. And his mouth is open wide, burping out his ABC’s for the entire world to hear. I have no idea how this happens. But it all leads up to one huge, picture-taking issue for me.
To make matters worse, I am passing my Santa issues on to Junior. I can’t tell you the number of times between Dec. 1 and Dec. 24 that I say, “Stop that! Do you want to get coal from Santa?” Poor Junior checks the lists at every Santa display we see. If he doesn’t see his name, he instantly wants to write an email to Santa to explain in detail why he should be on the nice list and why he should never, ever get coal in his stocking. By Dec. 24, I expect Santa’s server to crash.
Well, I can’t let that happen. Santa could blame a server crash on me and then I’d have yet another issue for my son to inherit. And you can’t play with coal–it stains the carpet. Trust me, I speak from experience.
So I’m off to email Santa. I plan to explain my issues rationally. And if that doesn’t work, I will leave out a plate of double fudge brownies for the big guy on Dec. 24. Santa couldn’t possibly leave coal to a boy who shares his love for double fudge brownies, could he?
Laurie Sontag is a Gilroy stay at home mom who wishes parenthood had come with a how-to guide. She can be reached at
am************@ya***.com
