Holidays are wonderful and magical and special. That is, until Santa drops a big fat yuletide log on your head. This is the third year that my sisters, brother-in-law and I have made a trip to the mall for a picture with Santa. It’s totally ridiculous and fun. We stand in a long line, eat David’s cookies and toss ideas around for the yearly pic. Last year’s pic was the four of us sitting around Santa “crying”while he smiled wide and proud. This year, my “cell phone” pitch came out on top. We were next up with Santa and quickly shedding all of our bags and coats. I was just about to grab my cell phone when Santa said to me, “Are you the mom?”
Screech, halt, freeze, pause, wha….wha…wha…what?!?! Santa thought I was the mother of these three grown-ass adults?!?! I didn’t let Santa’s little slip-up slide. Oh no. I spun on my heels and squawked, “You think I’m their Mo-ther? These people are all in their 30s!” ” From my peripherals I saw my sister June’s head drop. Sister Lauren’s eyes glazed over and June’s husband pretended to not have heard the Santa-bomb.
Santa said, “I’m sorry, I’ve had a long day, I’ve seen so many people.” I was like, “I’m sorry too…brah.” He goes, “Did I offend you?” I go, “Yeah, yeah buddy, you did.” He kept wanting to go over the details of what happened and how and why. I wasn’t really interested in making Santa feel better. Santa was reckless with his words.
It’s just like…I was feeling super good and cute and happy. And then Santa pulled a robbery on my good feelings and made me feel like a crusty old wrinkled pants. Not exactly the way I wanted to kick off my Christmas week.
Sister June maintains that the reason he thought I was the mother was he because of my full-length, camel hair, old-lady coat. She thinks he caught an eyeful of coat and made big assumptions. I’m choosing to believe that.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
*coat not pictured. removed for pic.