Bad Santa

My one regret as a parent (Oh, ok, I have a gazillion regrets, but this one particular one wasn’t my fault!), and that is that my two sons never got their picture taken with Santa. We tried but failed miserably. It happened that my first son was born on the 10th of December – a little too young for a picture with Santa, mainly because as a new mother, I was NOT going to let just anyone hold my brand new baby. Not even a jolly old saint of a man, wearing red pajamas and ho-hoing loudly, giggling his large belly. No way.

We settled for dressing the baby in a Santa outfit and placing him under the tree for endless adorable pictures.

When my son was one year old, I figured now was the time. I bathed him, powdered him, lotioned him, dressed him in a new outfit, just for the occasion, and set off for Santa who happened to be sitting in repose at Newberries in Val d’Or Quebec, where my husband was stationed in the Air force. And, yes, this little French Canadian village boasted a Newberries – right out of downtown Spokane, Washington – seemingly. I was looking forward to some English speaking Santa and elves.

We got there, all polished and shining and stood in line for eternity waiting for our chance. So, I don’t know if it was time for a bottle, or time for a new diaper, or time for a nap – I know I needed a nap, and fairly certain my one-year-old needed a nap, and possibly for sure Santa needed a nap too. It was finally our turn, and I started toward the great man of my childhood, so excited! And then suddenly I could feel my son tense in my arms, he took one look at Santa and then slowly held his breath. His face turned red, and then his nose crinkled up, his eyes clenched close, he then made a humming noise, opened his mouth, and WAILED. He sounded like a siren on a careening ambulance, going down for the crash. Arms flaying, legs wagging, lungs screaming.

I took a hasty retreat down the hallway, leaving my $10 behind me – knowing that this child would NEVER sit on Santa’s lap.

When I had my second son the following April, I practiced letting him sit on people’s laps, getting used to it before the big day in December. Only now I had two of them and no matter how much I “rehearsed” the picture-taking moment – we had a repeat, down to the last whimper, of the Christmas fiasco of the year before.

I just noticed a contest called “Santa Makes Me Pee My Pants A Little” for pictures of those precious moments when our children are flat out terrorized by Santa. I would offer up pictures of my two little ones – but it never happened! And now, in their 50’s, I think I’ve lost my chance.

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I'm fine. Fine. Just fine

May 2012

So, I started my day by visiting my regular doctor for that coveted annual female exam. And for the first time, I had to answer a form provided by Medicare as part of their Wellness Program. First question: Are you depressed? And I thought, hmmm, I might be depressed, I dunno. I’ve got this dialysis thing that I try to play down as a trivial little routine I do, but it gets kind of adventurous when your blood pressure crashes right before you are finished and to remedy that problem, they add back some of the fluid you were trying to take off, so that you leave dialysis heavier than your goal and you know that you’ll have to have even more fluid removed next time, but you will crash because you are having too much fluid taken off, and – etc., etc., etc. That might be a little depressing. So. . . . . . No. I’m not depressed. Next question: Do you need help handling your money? Well, I could use some more money so that I could actually handle my money before pissing it away on bills and more bills. No. I don’t need help handling my money. Several more questions later, and I feel depressed and elderly, which makes me feel more depressed, but I persevere and finish the questionnaire. My doctor says I’m doing great and does the ultimate test and we’ll wait for the results, and lately my test results have had things in them that I would rather not have and we’ll have to do more tests to see where things are going. (And then I pause to think about that stupid are you depressed question. And then I go to my pitiful job that’s not a real job, in that I’m paid minimum wage, I have a dog at my feet and two cats wandering around my keyboard, and kitty and doggy treats next to my pens and sticky notes. And at closing time, I am told they can’t afford me and I’m laid off!!! Now back to those two questions. I think I’ve changed my mind.