VivaCity

The holidays are quickly approaching, ladies and gentlemen, and you know what that means. Hot cocoa and mini marshmallows? Get real. I’m talking, of course, about playing the Santa card. It’s pure magic, dear readers, and I don’t give a flying eff if it WAS invented by Hallmark. If I saw Mr. Hallmark on the street tomorrow I’d kiss his fat face because he has saved my dear boy’s bum from a spanking on more than one occasion. As soon as the birthday streamers hit the wastebasket, it is ON. Santa is WATCHING, Spence, so if I were you I’d reconsider shoving that straw up your nose. As positively thrilling as that experience would be, it will most definitely land you on Santa’s Horribly Naughty Very Bad Boy List, and would it really have been worth it? I think not.

We are perfecting our Reindeer Games so well, that I usually only have to throw him the crazy eye and Spence KNOWS I’m thinking about ratting him out…Only once have I been forced to ask Nathaniel to please look up Santa’s phone number for me. The boy made a mad dash to right his wrong (damned if I can remember what it was now), screaming all the while, “I’m being good! I’m being good!”

My own parents never exploited this to its full potential. In fact, they told me at quite a young age what the deal was. In all honesty, I’m not sure they ever let me believe there was a Santa. I’m afraid I dashed quite a few friends’ imaginations to pieces. Santa? Santa Claus? Oh you poor misguided child. I’ve got news for you, buddy.

I’m a bit torn now, as to the prospect of having to break it to my own kid some day. I think 3 is a bit young, and I’m certainly not ready to give up the priceless value of the Santa card in my hand yet, but what is the right age? 4? 5? 6? When he out and out asks me, maybe? Is there a Santa, Momma? No dear. SWEET. I’m never cleaning my room again.

This one may have to be handed over to Daddy Dearest. Honey, when you get a chance…Could you cover sex, drugs, and the nonexistence of Santa? I’ve got to run do that…errand…thing…you know. I’ll be back later. Point me in the direction of the nearest bar, I’ve got to go mourn my son’s innocence and come up with an equally intimidating incentive…The Apocalypse, perhaps.