Hold the Fur, Santa! (reprinted with permission)

Time for the annual pilgrimage to Santa’s Workshop with the Christmas wish list.  I prepare the troops for major action.

‘Who wants to go see Santa tonight?”

Number one daughter turns several shades of scarlet.

“Oh no.  No way.  Remember last year?  I nearly died of embarrassment.”

I admit we did cause a bit of a fiasco.  Even Santa was surprised when I plopped down on his lap.

“Hi Santa.  Hope you don’t mind me bringing a list – whoops, there goes the end – but I’ve been saving up these past few years."

“What can I do for you, Darlin’?  (He’s such a charmer.)

“Well, for starters, I’d like to hear the occasional ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.  You know, like: “Thank you for making this terrific meal, Mom!” instead of “Oh no, not homemade Linguini alla Romana AGAIN?”

“Sounds fair.”

“Wish number two: I’d like, just once, to wake up to a house that didn’t look like someone picked it up and shook it.”

“That’s a might big wish,” said Santa.

“Well, how ‘bout if you make it so I can get to the front door without kicking my way through the shoes?”

“That’s what you’d like for Christmas?”  He was dubious.

“You want to get your milk and cookies?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And another thing.” (I was on a roll.)  “No Lego for the kids this year, please.”

“Don’t they want it?”

“Sure they want it. I don’t want another thousands pieces to pick up around the house.  Consider it a personal favour.”

“Gladly.  Have you been good this year?”

“Better than you.  Watch those hands, Santa.”

“Sorry.  Any stocking stuffers?”

“Lots.  How ‘bout the following: a clean floor for more than one day; a doorbell that works; a bath by myself; the kids to sleep in past seven just one Sunday; to find the five missing socks the dryer ate; complete laundry service; all meals planned, prepared and cleaned up by someone else; and lots of time to do nothing by myself.  Oh – one last thing: a diaper that changes itself.”

He was impressed.  “That’s a good one.”

“Thank you.  I’m an expert.”

Santa looked puzzled.  “Most girls your age ask me for diamond rings and fur coats.”

“Skip the fur.  I want a maid.”

Later in the car:

“Sorry to tell you this, Mom, but there is no Santa Claus.”

My eldest daughter is a cynic.  But it takes more than that to bring me down.

“Don’t be ridiculous.  Who do you think stuffed your Christmas stockings all these years?  And what about Rudolf?  Where did those carrots go to on Christmas Eve?”

Kids today.  They don’t believe in anything.  “Why, you probably don’t even believe in the Easter Bunny,” I accused.

“You’re right.  I don’t.”

“Careful, kiddo.  He might decide not to come.”

A cynic, but not stupid.  “Oh, well in that case…”

“I thought you’d see it my way.”