Close encounters of the bearded kind

If there was one thing I knew for sure as we drove to take you to see Santa for the first time yesterday, it was that I’d be adding to your future therapy tab. You undoubtedly suffer from your mom’s neurosis, especially around the Holidays.

In an effort to avoid the influenza infused crowds at the mall, we opted for Bass Pro Shop, naively thinking it was our little known secret that the man in red made his appearance among tackle and hunting supplies.

45 minutes later in a line with screaming children (thankful you don’t make noise) we came to the conclusion that the secret was out and perhaps the mall, which was much closer than this over sized testosterone-filled Mecca, would have been a better choice.

We had very low expectations for the Santa experience (after what happened last year I wasn’t going to make that mistake again) so of course we were not dismayed when you kicked and screamed (once again…very thankful you are not audible..) when we approached the jolly breaded man. The photographer’s assistant (weren’t they supposed to be elves? I suppose if anything sported pointy ears in this habitat they might be shot and skinned) reassured me not to worry and perhaps Mrs. Clause could hold you. While we knew this would still induced tears, it was probably better than having you decannulate on Santa's lap.

When your turn finally arrived I quickly passed you off to Santa who looked at me like I must have been out of my mind…all the while I was thinking “you’ve got it easy Kris, we could have brought the vent.” He mumbled something to Mrs. Clause, who got up from her perch and headed to a room in the back. Apparently option A was no longer available. By the looks of things option B wasn’t any better, as you were in full tantrum mode at the point. I quickly learned that option C wasn’t ideal either….Mr. C. patted his knee, gave me a wink, and told me to sit on his lap. I hesitated, looked for your dad (who was fumbling with the camera, apparently the memory was full and he was quickly trying to delete photos) I looked at creepy Clause again, who was grinning ear to ear as he confided in me that he had “locked Mrs. Clause in the back,” and I quickly realized that you were not the one who was going to need therapy for this, but that this encounter with dirty Santa would earn me a few sessions on the coach as well.

And before I knew it, it was over. Well, at least we’d get some funny pictures for the blog, I thought. These pics would certainly make Halloween look like a dress rehearsal. When I mentioned this to your dad, who was still fumbling with the camera, he admitted that he didn’t get any. And as it turned out the generic “free-but-we’ll-guilt-you-get-into-buying-the-complete-package” photo was all we had. And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. The theatrics didn’t even come through. All that drama for nothing.

Feeling disappointed (and violated) that we didn’t get pictures of you by yourself, as we walked away I gave your dad my best doe eyed look (I had plenty of practice starring at all the mounted carcasses while in line) and mentioned that maybe we could swing by the mall for another shot…..afraid to answer, his eyes begged for mercy…..and that’s when I knew that the therapy tab had come to three.

Here are the fruits of our labor.....

Whoa Buddy, watch those hands! The only thing creepier than pervy Santa is the stuffed dear in the back (there are some things I will never understand...) And don't worry I did not give St. Nick the pleasure....I strategically hovered above his already defiled lap....this Christmas I will be looking forward to the coal. ;)