We’ve been working hard to indoctrinate Tori into the Santa culture this year. We have Santa books, Santa ornaments, Santa figurines, Santa towels…basically, everywhere she looks, there’s Santa.
And we’ve been quite successful.
When she comes downstairs in the morning, the first thing she does is hug the 36-inch Santa who guards our Christmas tree. Then she goes around the house, gleefully calling “Santa” (well, actually, it’s more like “dan-na,” but we know what she means) whenever she spots one.
She only wants to read Santa books (she even begs to read the Hallmark catalog).
And rather than calling strange men daddy (embarrassing, to say the least), she queries “Santa?” And always seems disappointed when we say no.
So of course we had to take her to see the “real” Santa.
The outing started out promisingly. All day long, I asked her, “do you want to go see Santa?” To which she gleefully replied, “Yeah, Santa!”
Knowing a Santa visit was the reason, she let me dress her in her Christmas finery with a minimum of complaint. She even wore her tights without crying, “off? OFF!” every five seconds.
Once we got to the mall, she was dazzled by all the Christmas decorations. Enchanted by the hundreds of strings of lights hanging from the ceiling. And unduly excited by all the people she saw passing to and fro. In fact, I spent a fair amount of time chasing her as she rushed around, trying to take in everything all at once.
Finally, we arrived at Santa’s abode. The moment she caught sight of him, she was enthralled. Her eyes grew big so big, they were in danger of eating her face.
“Santa, Santa, Santa!” she said, pointing at him while periodically trying to dart between the legs of the families in front of us.
But when her turn came and I picked her up to sit her on his lap, she turned into a wild animal.
“Noooo,” she yelled in my ear, clinging to me with all her strength. As I lowered her toward Santa, she hung on to my shirt with a death grip. He reached for her, trying to pry her from me, but she wouldn’t let go.
She pulled and she pulled and she pulled…until Santa got an eyeful of mommy’s cleavage.
That’s right. Thanks to my daughter, I flashed Santa Claus. But at least I was wearing an appropriately festive red lace bra.
We took the picture anyway, both of us crouching at Santa’s feet (no way was I going to sit on his lap after that introduction).
So that’s how our first visit to Santa went. How about you, dear readers? Anybody have any nightmares and/or incredible tales of success to relate?