All she can think about is David Sedaris’ Santaland Diaries. She heard it on NPR a few years ago and now she wonders if she’s scarring her children by taking them to this place. As a child, though, she longed to see Santa, the fancy department store one: billowing beard, velvet suit, matte boots.
So she takes her children now, clothes them in glittery dresses, in dapper sweaters. The youngest likes fancy “party shoes” so she buys gold flats on clearance at the Nordstrom Rack, presents them to her with a flourish. Unfortunately, the toddler refuses to wear socks, shuns tights. Instead her tiny heels blister, redden with the rubbing of a stiff shoe. By the time she gets to Santa’s lap she has kicked them off, bare feet dangling. Her face clouded by the confusion of curiosity about, and fear of, this large stranger.
The five-year-old has written a letter this year, presents it to the man in the red suit. He wants mom to sidle up, support his entreaty. Head down, he makes his requests in a small voice, so different from his usual chatty nature. He is lately into jewels, into diamonds, into geodes, the shiny treasures of this world. He is lately into big cats, wants to travel to the Serengeti, tells any who will listen his animal factoids. He makes his request, then shuffles away to the safety of mom’s sturdy legs, strong arms and the reward of a sticky candy cane.
