Once upon a Christmastime, almost a half-century ago, a hundred heads swiveled in our direction to cast angry stares at us, with that “what kind of a monster are you?” look that no parent ever wants to see. And all because our cute little daughter picked just the wrong time to get it all wrong.
We had taken little Jenny to the Woodfield Mall to see Santa Claus so she could sit on his lap and tell him about all the toys that were on her Christmas list. She had heard of Santa all her short life, of course, and had seen him on television and on posters at the store, but she had never met him in person. This would be her first time.
And because Jenny was our first child, it would be a new experience for us, too.
But we were ready. We had told her the miraculous legend of Santa — how he managed to visit every child in the world on one special night, and how he could remember whatever you said if you sat on his lap and politely told him of your fondest wishes. But only your fondest wishes, mind you, because Santa was a busy man, and there would be hundreds of other children waiting for their lap time.
But more than that, we also prepared her to shrug off the terror of sitting on the lap of a mutant bearded elf the size of a red Volkswagen. We had heard stories of traumatized children who shrieked in panic when the big moment came and dashed off to a lifetime of shame and horror forever after.
And so we were ready.
And we went to the mall, confident and expectant.
But as we stood in the endless line, worry began to creep in. Jenny was getting restless and cranky, wondering why we had to wait for so long. She was teetering on the edge of her patience as we neared Santa and his throne, and it was becoming more and more likely that a monstrous, hairy, mutant elf might be just enough to set her off.
It didn’t help that children who had been standing in line ahead of us now trundled past in an endless pitiable stream, wailing in traumatized shame and horror after meeting Santa face-to-face. The floor was slick with their tears.
Jenny stared at those sorry souls, and we wondered what she thought of them.
“Do you remember what you’re going to ask him?” we prodded, trying to keep her mind occupied and focused, but our efforts only served to irritate her further, so we clenched our jaws and hoped for the best.
And when it was her turn at last, Jenny hopped up on Santa’s lap and performed perfectly.
“Thank you for the presents you brought me last year,” she began, and we beamed with pride. All those hours of rehearsal had paid off. And then she rattled off her short list of fondest wishes, thanked him once more, and hopped back down.
Perfect.
What a perfect little girl.
And what perfect parents we were, to have raised such a perfect little girl so perfectly.
But then, as we sauntered away from Santa and his throne, basking in the admiration of those worried families still in line, Jenny suddenly pulled up short. “Wait,” she said, “I forgot something.”
“No, you didn’t,” we said. “You told him everything you wanted. We heard you.”
“No, not that,” she said, and then she spun about and took matters into her own little hands. “Santa!” she called, in a voice that rang as clear as a silver bell, and a hundred voices hushed as if an angel had sung.
“When you come to our house,” she said, “I’ll leave some cookies and milk for you and your goats!”
And that’s when a hundred heads turned with a gasp and scowled at us.
Goats!!?!
“I swear,” I said to them, my open hands turned upwards in pleading supplication, “I told her they were reindeer, not goats. Remember, honey?” I said to her. “Reindeer ?”
But Jenny just looked at me with puzzled angel eyes that said: “Reindeer? When did this happen?”
And so we left, the muttering of the disgusted crowd burning our ears — each parent insisting to their puzzled tots not to listen to the goat nonsense that deluded girl and her awful parents believe in.
We scurried from the mall with little Jenny aglow in awed joy and wonder, and us — her parents — blazing in traumatized shame and horror.
TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com.
