Santa Baby

As a companion piece to my Religious Holidays for Dummies post, I wanted to transcribe the childrens’ 2012 communications to a higher power they definitely believe in, aka Santa. In looking back at my own checkered relationship with the big man, doubt started creeping in the year I was eight, and by the time I was nine we were donesies, so it strikes me that this is probably my last year to enjoy both of my kids’ unsullied faith in a myth I have carefully constructed and perpetuated. It’s bittersweet, especially as I hate to think about my daughter putting Santa’s name in air quotes next December, as in, “I hope “Santa” will carefully consider my request for a laptop.”

Anyway, my soon-to-be six year old kept things simple. He dictated and his faithful maternal scribe got it all down:

Dear Santa,

How are you and your elves? I hope you’re having a good time making toys. I would like:
1. A new kind of Magnatiles.
2. A dollhouse with no roof.
3. Really pretty necklaces with crystals.
Plus surprises. Please.

Love, M–

Nothing to sweat on this list, Santa’s feeling pretty good about her chances of procuring these items. I’ll be trying to skillfully coax a little more detail out of the kid on the “no roof” thing. Ditto “crystals”–I hope he isn’t thinking “diamonds.” Have I got a future Liberace on my hands? Time will tell.

My eight year old has a long history of bargaining for mercy with Santa. A few Christmases ago she composed a crookedy little Christmas Eve note to put with the cookies and milk that pleaded for last-minute leniency thusly: “I know I’ve been bad but it’s hard.” Her conscience was obviously smiting her again this year as she crafted her five-page opus:

Dear Santa (a heart balloon floats next to his name with ‘I love Santa Claus!’ written inside),

I know I’ve been a little bit bad but it’s hard being a big sister. I mean some things are only my fault but some things are because my brother and I interacted. You are one of my biggest heroes. Thank you for all the presents. Could I get your autograph? Autograph _____________. Thank you. Here are the things I want:

1. Easy Bake Ultimate oven
2. A glow-in-the-dark digital clock
3. Kit Kittredge’s American Girl doll bed

And please surprise me! I like fashion, real making food, and making fashion, etc.

Love,
One of your biggest fans,
I–

The kid clearly knows that flattery will get you everywhere, and sometimes the best defense is a good offense. A classic case of her doing as I do rather than as I say. The list itself is straightforward, although I’m wondering what kind of surprises would best please her–maybe a “Make your own Carmen Miranda fruit hat” kit? I’ll let my imagination run wild.

I was a little stressed about the autograph request, as it seemed like a “first chink in the armor” type of suspicion confirmation, but lucky for me I just got to do a dry run.

A week ago my five year old lost his very first baby tooth after about three months of toothy malingering–he wouldn’t let anyone touch it, and the darned thing seemed determined to wiggle around in there forever. Finally it came out while he was jumping on his bed with a friend–the details are hazy, but everyone was smiling afterwards, so whatever. That night, with the help/direction of his big sister, he left the Tooth Fairy a note requesting that she please leave him 1. the tooth because it’s “special to him” (cute), and 2. her autograph (SHIT.) Generally I leave the Tooth Fairy work up to my spouse, but he was out of town, so it fell to me and my shaky hands and creaky knees and cracking ankles to make the magic happen.

I knew I could never manage to get the actual note plus the pencil he’d tucked in beside it out from under his head, but I decided to make that negative a positive–because the Tooth Fairy is a FAIRY, so she’s SMALL, right? Instead I’d leave my own teeny tiny note, which I could scootch in there with the money. I found an appropriately sparkly piece of paper and, without even a warm-up, just busted out an eensybeensy curlycute signature. Turns out I’m a natural. See below.

Pen for scale. Eensy! Beensy!

I managed to creep into his bedroom, leave all my surprises, and creep back out without disturbing the young master. It felt good! I eagerly anticipated his morning excitement, and he gratified me by bounding in first thing to show me his… MONEY!

Me: “Wow, you’re rich! Was there… Anything else under your pillow?”

Him (puzzled): “Like what?”

Me: “Like… Didn’t you ask for the Toothfairy’s autograph?”

Him: “Yeah, what IS an autograph anyway?”

Me (rolling eyes): “It means you want someone to sign their name.”

Him: “Oh! Well she didn’t sign the note, the note’s still there and it doesn’t look different.”

Me: “Uh, but maybe… Uh… Could there have been… You know what? Let’s just go check again.”

I walked him back into his room and rooted around under his pillow. And my cute little note was GONE! I started searching the whole bed, thrusting my hand into the cracks between the mattress and the bed frame, then getting down on my knees to look underneath.

Him: “Mommy? What are you doing?”

Me (grunting): “I just don’t think the Toothfairy would have ignored your request for an autograph like that. I mean, she left you the tooth like you asked, right?”

Him (starting to lose interest): “Yeah, I guess…”

Finally, after a frantic five minutes of searching, I found my teeny slip of sparkly paper and showed it to him in triumph. He still didn’t seem too enthused, and I would have been a little chagrined, but I got my reward a few minutes when my daughter burst into his room yelling, “Did she come? Did she sign the paper?!”

I showed off my handiwork. She snatched it and scrutinized it closely, looking from the paper to me.

8yo: “This… This ISN’T your handwriting. Is it?”

Me: “What?! No! Of course not!”

8yo: “Huh.”

And so the slender thread of belief was extended just a little longer.