Portrait of the Christmas cryer
The Christmas cards are winging their way to my house. It’s the only time of year when I look forward to opening my mailbox.
Recently, I received a Christmas card from a friend whose little boy was sitting on Santa’s lap crying, mouth agape, red-faced, and tear-stained.
For the record, it was a Mall Santa and not the real Kris Kringle. As I stared at the picture, it dawned on me – this was the best take, the best iteration. Somewhere in the Cloud, there are 17 or so worse photos of this child wailing – and possibly weeing – on Santa’s lap.
Was it wrong to show everyone the photo and laugh? Probably.
I feel bad for children this time of year. It starts on Halloween. All year, they’re told not to take candy from strangers, except on Halloween when they’re told to knock on strangers’ doors and beg for it. Occasionally, you’ll hear parents shouting from the street, “Say ‘Trick or Treat,’ Austin!”
For the record, I never force the child to say anything. I just let them pick their favorite treat from an orange bucket with a yellow Jack-O’-Lantern face on it. Some kids will take a long time to decide if they want Cheetos, Doritos, or sour cream and onion potato chips. Even though it was cold and rainy, I stood on the porch and let them choose. I don’t rush them.
Side note: I give out chips because the leftovers go into my lunchbox. I don’t need a house full of Snickers, fun-size, full-size, or otherwise. During COVID, when I didn’t have many trick-or-treaters at the door, I ate bags of bat-shaped pretzels until mid-March.
But I digress, like I do. Once the candy is in the bag, the parent will yell from a safe position on the sidewalk, “Say ‘Thank you!,’ Austin! Say it! Say it! Say ‘Thank you’ or – I swear to God – we’re going home.”
It’s an ordeal.
Then, somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, parents will plop their kids down on some old guy’s lap and ask them to smile for the camera. Since the real Santa is too busy this time of year, it’s a Santa stand-in, one of his stunt doubles. This part-time mall employee has to put up with a lot: unruly children, argumentative parents, and elves who need an occasional vape break.
The children also have an insurmountable task ahead of them. They are dragged to the mall, thrown on the lap of a stranger who reeks of coffee, cigarettes, and a musty Santa suit, and told to say “Cheese!”
How often do those red felt suits get washed? My guess is somewhere between once a year and never.
In a few months, these selfsame children will be forced to sit on the lap of an unnaturally large rabbit, an enormous Peter Cottontail. I guarantee that the kids will cry. I think I would, too, if I had to sit on the lap of a radioactive mutant bunny.