Santa's Nice List

We made our harrowing annual journey last night to see Santa at the Green Hills Mall. We were doomed.

My husband coordinated a fantastic outfit with a blue snowflake sweater and grey cords. The outfit picked up his red hair and blue eyes, and it wouldn't blend with Santa's red suit. Sure, Bitty shrieked and tousled his hair within fifteen seconds of my arranging it, but we had snacks and toys and water. We couldn't have been more prepared.

We came in by the Panera Bread, avoiding (for now) the escalator question. Around the corner, on his overstuffed chair with its back to us, was Santa. And there was no line! Upon further survey, there was just one tiny baby ahead of us, barely squeaking in Santa's lap. He might even have been asleep. No one to get Bitty riled up. We couldn't have gotten a better setup.

We stood at the ropes as the parents and grandma ahead of us scoured their proofs for the perfect photo; they had their pick of great shots, I'm sure. Little Bit tried to run into the Santa scene, a move I believed meant that all the music, photos, and talk of Santa had paid off. I was wrong. When he finally was able to advance, he ran full-speed across, not even acknowledging Santa, to the exit rope.

I grabbed him and brought him to be introduced to Santa. He was having none of this. The child stops people in grocery stores and Office Max to babble and chat, and here he was avoiding Santa. He barrel rolled from Santa. He army crawled from Santa. I sat with him and stood him beside Santa, but he had no faith in my ability to keep Santa at bay. Thomas the Train, which Santa demonstrated great knowledge of, could not placate Bitty. Only when daddy sat by Santa did we get one good shot of him looking at the camera.

We moved over to look at the shots. We decided against another copy of him crying and chose the one of him, my husband and Santa. Once Bitty decided that the ordeal over, and Santa gave him a coloring book, he started playing with Santa.

I hope Santa leaves me something nice this year.