Santa

Alternatively titled: A Scene From My Life, A Holiday Comedy, Coming To A Theater Near You

Yes we NEED a little Christmas!
Right this very minute!
It hasn’t snowed a single flurry
But Santa, dear, we’re in a hurry! 

The Christmas carols blared through the speakers of our car as we tried to drown out the sounds of both of our over-tired children screaming in the back seat. The best birth control always comes in the form of shrieks from the rear of a vehicle at 70 mph. I should bottle this shit and sell it… like in a conch shell. Audible birth control.

Anyway, we were headed to go see Santa. It wasn’t our original plan. Originally, we were supposed to join friends and their children on a carriage ride through a rich neighborhood to look at expensive Christmas lights because nothing says “we live in the burbs and don’t get out past Chilis and the mall much” like having horses pull you through a wealthy neighborhood to gawk at all their festive decorations that they paid others to put up for them.

But then the weather decided to be crap and rain that day, which, you know, OBVIOUSLY, because we are in a drought, BUT OF COURSE it would rain *that* night. You’re welcome, Texas. We didn’t need to ogle rich people’s Christmas lights anyway.

Weather be damned. Non-napping children be damned! We were going to be JOLLY, dammit. So I dressed the kids up in their brand new Christmas outfits and away we went to see The Big Guy.

We WISH you a Merry Christmas!
We WISH you a Merry Christmas!
We WISH you a Merry Christmas!
And a happy. new. year.

By the time we arrived at the mall, both of the kids had passed out. We drug them both out of the car to the sound of the amplified holiday station over the parking lot loudspeaker and their cranky whines.

“Come on! It will be SO. MUCH. FUN. to see Santa!” I cheered, my fake smile plastered firmly from cheek to cheek.

“I’m sorry. Santa isn’t taking anymore reservations for the night,” the elfish receptionist said flatly and nasaly while gesturing to a long line ahead of us.

“Uhhhhh….. what? I’m sorry, what? It’s 6:20. Seriously?” ::blink, blink:: That was the only response I could come up with. She, apparently, wasn’t taking the bait. She just stood there, blinking back, so I walked away and sighed.

And then I had the super pleasant job of telling the already tired and cranky 3 year old that nope, no we were not to see Santa tonight… and no, no we still can’t ride the horsies to see the fancy Christmas lights.

Iiiiii’m dreaming
of a whiiiiiiiite
Christmas…

I stopped to pause at how non-relevant this song is to all Texans. I don’t think I’ve ever met a single one who used to “know” White Christmases. Not that that should stop them from playing this song down south… just a random thought one thinks when they realize they have wasted an entire evening accomplishing nothing at all festive, just buckling and unbuckling crying kids in car seats all night.

But we will save this night! Dinner and cookies for all!

Except the children were still cranky and tired and the dinner sucked. The service sucked. I think the restaurant was being run by the cast of Glee, but with way less enthusiasm.

We threw in the towel. Done. We’re going home.

It’s the MOST wonderful time
Of the yearrrrrr…

As my favorite of all condescending Christmas songs came on over the radio, I at least felt some comfort that we would get home in time to put the children straight to bed and enjoy a glass of wine before turning in.

It’s the hap- happiest season
of ALLLLLL

“What was that??” I quickly turned to Scott, then looked behind us as we rapidly decreased speed. Cars were whipping by, and all I could hear was thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

We had a flat tire. We then had to drive .5 mile to get off the highway and into a U-Haul parking lot so Scott could change it. In the rain.

As he popped open the trunk of his car, it hit me suddenly- the vision of that table saw I bought for him for Christmas, sitting there in the trunk, waiting for me to figure out a way to haul it inside and wrap it. I was sort of hoping I’d just tell him on Christmas morning to go retrieve it himself.

It was too late for such surprises. I leaned out of my door and shouted over the traffic, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” 

Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas
Let your heart be-

I turned that shit off.

We laughed the whole way home about the unfortunate unfolding of the day’s events to nothing but the sound of our sleeping babies. All the while, I was secretly relieved that I wouldn’t have to worry about getting that enormous box inside and could now make Scott carry his own present in.

And that is why God gave me a sense of humor, a handy husband and wine.

The end.

Kendall is 3.5, Leyna is 11.5 months old and we WILL conquer Santa pictures this week, so help me.