Tag Archives: naughty list

The year without a Santa Claus

There’s an infamous (at least for me) story from my childhood where I looked at my mom one day and just bluntly said “Santa Claus isn’t real, is he?”

“No, he’s not, sweetie,” my mom replied.

And that was that.

But the infamous part came next. Because I went to school the following day and stood on top of my desk to kindly (and loudly) share this breaking news with all my second grade peers. 

Surprisingly, this did not help my popularity.

And now, all these years later, the joke is on me. Little did I know that in my 30’s I’d still be dealing with this whole “does Santa exist?” controversy. Oh karma, you wily minx. Because see, now that I’m a mom, and need Santa to exist, I can’t find that bastard anywhere.

Let’s start at the beginning.

My son’s first Christmas, when he couldn’t have cared less (since his only interests back then were my boobs and old, gross, fast food receipts) we were lucky enough to randomly run into a Santa while out and about in early December. So we plopped our son down and took a million photos as you are legally required to do. Easy peasy. And they are photos we cherish to this day even despite the fact that both my baby and Santa look like they’re being held at gunpoint.

So, naturally, I just assumed that was how it worked. Last year, I figured we’d run into another one while out shopping or looking for a restaurant that sold spaghetti tacos (did I mention I was pregnant again?). We never did. Luckily, my son was still young enough that it didn’t really matter and I didn’t really care about anything except spaghetti tacos and not puking on random strangers whenever I left the house.

But this year, oh, this year, I came prepared. He’s almost three. And this is his sister’s first Christmas. Time to stop phoning it in as a parent. So, starting the day after Thanksgiving I started Googling where and when Santa would be. I was leaving nothing to chance.

Imagine my surprise then, when two Sundays ago, we went to meet Santa and he wasn’t there. Apparently “Santa will be taking photos until 5 p.m.” meant if you showed up at 4:30 p.m. he’d be gone on what I can only assume was a very important Santa emergency involving happy hour eggnog shots. Luckily, people working the event were super helpful and reassured us that they had “no idea where he was or if he’d be back.”

I was mad, sure. The Momma Bear in me wanted to start smacking people with my festive Santa hat. But I managed to keep my calm. We still had one more weekend before Christmas and my toddler got chocolate as a consolation prize, so crisis averted.

Still, again, I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. I checked, then double checked, then triple checked when and where Santa would be this past Saturday.

7 p.m.

No less than three local event calendars said 7 p.m.

Santa would be hanging out in this particular location until 7 p.m.

Looking back, I should have known better. It was the same location that Santa had abandoned to go on a bender the weekend before. But, silly me, I thought if we showed up three hours before closing time, he’d be there.

Ha!

He wasn’t.

Needless to say, I was frothing at the mouth at this point. And again, the helpful people working the event assured us that “um…I don’t know, man.”

So, again, my son got chocolate as a consolation prize. But I am running out of time and I need some chubby, red jerkface to sit on his ass and interact with my freaking children before I lose it. I need a photo of my baby girl screaming on his lap and one of my son doing that weird toddler smile where it looks like they forgot how to smile. It’s Christmas. Why the hell can’t I find a Santa? Why is this so hard? WHY AM I BEING PUNISHED FOR A MISTAKE I MADE WHEN I WAS SEVEN?!?

Sigh. This is a good lesson for you kids though. Apparently once you’re on the naughty list, you stay on that naughty list. Santa does not forgive nor forget.

Well played, fat man. Well played.

 

What my baby really wants for Christmas

Dear Santa,

Hiya, big guy. Remember me? Yes, yes, that Aprill with two L’s who “allegedly” set fire to Prancer when she drank too much eggnog and found that old stash of fireworks in the attic on Christmas Eve 2007.

(But may I remind you, the trial ended in a hung jury so no hard feelings, yeah?).

I’m writing this letter to you on behalf of my son, Riker, who due to circumstances beyond his control is unable to write you himself (those circumstances, of course, being that he is only 9-months-old and used the pen I gave him to whack our dog repeatedly on the head…heh, guess the ‘ol apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, now does it?).

Anyhoo, I can’t tell you how excited we are for Christmas this year. It’s Riker’s first one and we are planning on going all out this year. We even positioned our fake tree so that you can barely see the burn marks from two years ago (I should really not be allowed around fireworks). And our stockings have already been hung with care and copious amounts of duct tape.

But first things first, old man. Regarding the naughty or nice list…sigh. As we both know, my name has been written on the former in permanent marker since 1998 thanks to various incidents my lawyer has advised me not to publicly discuss pending current litigation in three Midwestern states (best road trip EVER though). However, I hope that you can rise above our personal rocky relationship and not let it affect my son. He’s been a very good boy this year, that yogurt-throwing incident involving that other baby in Starbucks notwithstanding.

In the hopes that you can find it in your heart this holiday season to let bygones be bygones, I have enclosed my baby’s Christmas list below:

  1. An exact replica of our dog’s tail.

The real one is by far his most treasured possession (besides that gross, wrinkled, fast food receipt he found at the bottom of my purse last Tuesday and refuses to let go of). Anytime he sees that tail, he immediately makes a beeline straight for it using that weird “I haven’t quite mastered crawling so instead I transport myself across the floor like a dying man in the desert who sees an oasis and is trying to get to it but only half his limbs work” move of his. However, seeing as how the tail is currently still attached to our dog, we all agree it would be in the best interest of Buffy’s mental health if Riker had his own, separate tail to play with.

  1. Gross, wrinkled, fast food receipts

You know, maybe just like a handful of them to put in his stocking.

  1. An end table.

I know, I know. What would a baby need an end table for? And the answer is, I have no bloody idea. All I know is that my son refuses to leave our current end table alone. But since ours is reserved space for Mommy’s coffee (and by that I obviously mean vodka poured into a coffee mug), he really needs his own.

  1. A Bane mask like the one from the Batman movie

Confession: This one is more for me. I figured it would be a good way to get him to stop shoving everything he finds on our fairly disgusting floors into his mouth but is also fun and full of whimsy. Also because I’m pretty sure using a straight-up muzzle on my baby is illegal.

Well, I guess that’s just about everything, Santa. Thanks for reading and again, my apologies to Prancer. I was glad to hear that at least some of his fur was able to grow back, albeit in small, sad patches (I’m sure he’ll be allowed to play those reindeer games again any day now…reindeer can be so cruel, can’t they?).

My love to the missus,

Aprill