By LUELLA DOW
Contributor
A few years ago there was an article in another paper about a Santa Claus and a crying baby. The little boy was about 19 months old.
He was hot and tired in his snowsuit as his mother insisted they wait in line for a picture with Santa.
Santa, himself, was probably hot and tired after hefting a hundred children onto his lap to have them pull his beard, pinch his knees, kick his chins and tell him, “You're sure fat.”
When the mother and her screaming child finally arrived at Santa's knee, Santa, who had been watching, said to the mother, “Was it worth it for you to torture your child for a picture? You must be an evil person.”
Mother, also hot and tired from wrestling the child for an hour, filed a complaint with the store manager.
Santa had had enough. He stood up, ripped off his beard; the red coat stuffed with a pillow, and probably kicked off his boots as well.
Other mothers, horrified, covered their children's eyes, so that they would not see Santa as a real person, who actually wore a T-shirt and had hair on his chest.
Security guards arrived and escorted Santa away. The store manager apologized for Santa's behavior.
Another Santa took his place and the line continued.
Now, just a minute, let's move the lens to the child's viewpoint. Do you remember, as a little child, waiting and waiting, stuffed into a snowsuit, while your mother shopped in a large store?
The counters were above your head and all you could see were people's feet. And over in a corner was this very large man shouting “Ho, ho.”
While mothers pulled their reluctant children to him, forced them to sit on his lap, and smile.
At 19 months of age you may not have remembered everything your parents told you, but you remembered their serious faces as they emphasized, “Run the other way when a strange man tries to coax you to sit on his lap or to go “find a puppy”.
In your child's mind you thought to yourself, I'd better do what Mama wants so we can go home.
Maybe I misunderstood about not talking to strangers.
Out on the street at last, you spy a strange man with a white beard. His clothes aren't as pretty as what the man in the store wore. In fact, they're kind of dirty like when you play in the sand box.
You begin to toddle toward him.
You hear behind you a woman's scream. It's your mother. She's breathless and hustles you away.
“No, no, son. Come away.”
Bewildered, you throw your pretty mittens on the ground and yank at the zipper on your snowsuit. Ah, that cool air feels so good. On second thought, you'd like to go back and talk to that man they called Santa in the store. He had the right idea. Take off all those hot clothes.
Stand up and walk around. Give your boots a kick and see how far they go across the floor.
And get away from all those screaming kids and frowning mamas.
It's lots more fun to sit on the floor at home and play with your toys.
Luella Dow is a local author and can be reached at [email protected]
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