"Yep, that's Santa....Okay, let's go shopping now."
It felt almost like we were passing a dead body: "Move along, children; nothing to see here. Move along, now."
The children didn't put up a fuss, and I velt vindicated (go ahead--say those two words in a Russian accent; you'll thank me immediately) upon hearing what my children would ask Santa for:
"Ummm...I don't know."
"Ummm...I don't know."
"Ummm...I'm not really sure."
"Ummm..."
But then, as the night progressed, I started feeling a little bit bad for not encouraging (and maybe even slightly discouraging) the childes from seeking Santa (wise men still seek him). So when the mall was finally through sucking our life juices from us, and just about ready to expel our carcasses, I slowed down a bit as we passed the Santa throne.
"Anyone want to see Santa?"
"I DO!" No.4 pleaded.
But she was alone. No.2 and No.3 started discussing the probabilities of Santa's actual existence--whether in the mall or in the North Pole--and No.1 occupied herself with No.5.
"PLEEEEEEEASE, Daddy? I want to see Santa!"
"Daddy," said No.1," I'll take her, if you want."
"Great!"
So I walked them up to the throne (it was late, so nobody was in line). About ten yards from the man, No.4 froze. Not unexpected, but unexpected. I thought she had hurdled the hesitation during the mall tour, going over and over in her head what she planned to tell Santa (I'm a fool. Even Ralphie--he who had planned his speech for months--froze. And he was a professional actor!)
But she froze. Then she spidered up my leg and lunged off my hip and onto my head.
Meanwhile, Santa's sitting there expectantly, pasting his "I can't wait to get home" smile onto his whisker-shrouded face.
She wasn't coming down--not while he was nearby.
She wasn't coming down--not while he was nearby.
So he turned to No.1.
He started small, then went for the big (but definitely not least expected) question:
"And what would you like for Christmas?"
"Ummm...(giggle) I don't really know....just...some books, I guess."
"Ohhhh. You like to read, do you?"
"(giggle) Yeah."
"You know, Santa likes to read, too--"
Stop. Now here is where I, a Santa pro, would have taken things:
"Do you know what Santa most likes reading? The list of good girls and boys. Do you think your name is on that list?"
But lo, this Santa has apparently never associated with small children. Here is what he said:
"I just finished a book this summer. Oh, what was it called...they made a movie about it just recently...oh, I can't remember...Oh yes! Lord of the Rings. Have you read that?"
"..."
"..."
"You know, with Bilbo Baggins, and Gandalf..."
"..."
"And hobbits, and dragons?"
"..."
"I really liked that book."
"Oh."
I don't know if I've ever seen No.1 more dejected. Have you ever had a moment where you weren't sure if you wanted to do something, then talked yourself into doing it, hoping it would actually be an incredible experience, only to be let down? So you end up saying, I knew that would be lame. That was No.1 times infinity. Santa was a disappointing disappointment.
At the time.
It seems that since then, the children have been making excuses to hold onto the magic of Santa:
"Dad, that was just Santa's helper; he wasn't the real Santa," said No.2. "I saw black hair under his hat, that's how I know that."
And I am perfectly fine with them holding onto the idea of Santa. Because despite the imperfect experience of our children, the idea of a man who delights in giving gifts is a pretty nice thought.
At the time.
It seems that since then, the children have been making excuses to hold onto the magic of Santa:
"Dad, that was just Santa's helper; he wasn't the real Santa," said No.2. "I saw black hair under his hat, that's how I know that."
And I am perfectly fine with them holding onto the idea of Santa. Because despite the imperfect experience of our children, the idea of a man who delights in giving gifts is a pretty nice thought.
