The joys of parenthood – Santa Edition

This past Sunday, the family packed up the baby wagon and headed, like every red blooded American, to the mall for some Christmas cheer and a photo shoot with the Big Man himself, Santa. Lo wanted a fabulous shot of our darling boy perched on Santa’s knee, smiling sweetly into the camera. Last year’s picture was so good that we used it for our Xmass cards and Lo wanted to do the same this year.

We get to the mall early and head in, only to be greeted with an absent Santa. A very angry and, as you will soon learn, very wrong lady informed us that Santa will arrive at noon. It was 10:30; we had an hour and a half to kill. So, we shopped but we both were a little concerned that J. would not be able to go that long without a nap. Kids, I am learning, are somewhat timebombish in that respect.

After about forty fives minutes of shameless consumerism, we were back in the section of the mall that houses Santa’s Village. It was at this time that Lo looked down over the balcony to find Santa hard at work with a line of about 50 people waiting their turn. Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh! The angry lady screwed us! I hope one day to find that angry lady and give her bad directions or something.

Anyway, we chose to get in the queue ASAP – one of us would stand in line while the other handled J., who, it must be noted, had been a trooper thus far. But after a good twenty minutes, J. started to get fidgety. It was decided that I would take him up the kid’s play area and Lo would call me when we got close. J. and I kill another twenty minutes in PlayLand. Back in line again, we switch off between occupying J. (so exhausting) and waiting in line (so boring).

Finally, we get to the main event. Lo positions herself directly in front of Santa to distract J. while I lead him over to see the Man in Red. We get within five feet of Santa before our fears are realized. As if on cue, our little darling goes thermonuclear. Santa has officially freaked my child out. Wailing, screaming, tears flowing like a pissed off little river; his face nearly perfectly matching the festively red shirt Lo picked out for the affair. We took maybe three shots, each more ghastly than the proceeding one as the tantrum really started to gain momentum. Lo and I looked at each other; we knew Santa has defeated us. No great Christmas cards and two hours wasted; it was a most dispiriting morning. Exhausted, beaten, and empty-handed, we departed the battlefield quickly.

But I am an optimist when it comes to things of this nature. Next year, we triumph over that child-scaring red clad icon of Christmas.

So mark my words Fat Man, we will get that picture next year. Oh yes, next year indeed.