Santa. The fat man in the red suit. Ah, the joy he brings children. Or perhaps, sometimes, NOT! But that time of year is here again (whether we like it or not) and, amazingly, he seems to be popping up at every shopping centre from here to Timbuktu. Well. Probably not quite Timbuktu. I don't imagine Timbuktu have the amazing range of shopping centres we do here in Melbourne. Even rather dingy shopping centres, like my local, where (up until the appearance of a Myer store a few years ago), the shopping experience there was nearly dominated by the appearance of crappy two-dollar shops, and the like. Now. Where was I? Ah, that's right! Santa!
Santa and my little madam go way back. All the way to the start of December 2008, when I decided to take her (at three months of age) to a local shopping centre - not my regular local, but one of the many in the vicinity - for her very first photo with Santa. And what a breeze it was. Although, it did take little madam (who has always been a rather serious child) a few minutes to break into a smile. But, overall, the experience was lovely, and the photo I have to remember it by gives me nothing but fond memories. Unfortunately, the experience almost a year later, to the date - little madam must have been fifteen months if I'm not mistaken - did not go quite so well.
I ended up taking little madam to my local shopping centre (yes, the dingy one which, by now, wasn't so bad due to, not only the appearance of a Myer store but, a couple of other tasteful stores - the ABC shop being one of them). Unfortunately, although little madam didn't seem frightened by the sight of the fat man in red, who was seated in a large throne and surrounded by an array of sparkling, not-to mention extremely eye-catching, decor, the queue to see him was quite lengthy. Lengthy enough for little madam to become rather interested in one of the impressively decorated Christmas Trees (along with a giant toy soldier) that made up Santa's impressive set. Therefore, when it was time for her to do what you'd expect any "normal" little child to want to do (ie. sit on Santa's knee) she was less than impressed to be dragged away from the sparkling tree that had captivated her attention. I'm actually surprised that Santa managed to leave that day with a full set of teeth, mostly due to the fact that little madam (my sweet, innocent little madam) almost kicked them out in fury. So violent were her actions, that I literally heard Santa mutter an extremely surprised, "Oh!", as he was forced to duck for cover from her flying feet. Needless to say, the photograph that was captured on this particular day, to remember the experience by, does not give me fond memories. As, captured in this photograph (due to the fact that I was forced to grab hold of little madam and literally pin her to my lap, while I took the seat next to - not on, lucky for him - a very surprised Santa) is an embarrassed red-faced with teeth-baring - no, I most certainly was not smiling - mother (me) with her arms around a furious and red-faced little girl (little madam).
Now following this horrifying, and somewhat mortifying, experience, I had absolutely no intention (following the birth of little man at the end of October) of going through similar turmoil and torment the following year. The Santa photo this particular year just happened by chance. We were strolling through my usual local shopping centre (my husband, little madam, little man - he wasn't strolling, by the way. I was carrying him in a sling - and I) and we happened to pass by Santa (the same Santa from the year before, believe it or not). Well. I'm not sure why - whether it was the fact that there was no queue to allow for little madam's attention to be taken by a Christmas Tree or a giant toy soldier - but little madam walked straight up to Santa and climbed (without a single second of hesitation) onto his lap for a terrific shot. I also managed to unhook a sleeping little man from the sling, as well, and hand him over to a rather nervous-looking Santa; no doubt he was probably nervous over the prospect of having to hold a sleeping, four-week-old baby. The photo captured was gorgeous, and despite the fact little man was sound asleep (and it was obvious he really didn't give a fat rat's bottom about the fat man in red) both my wonderful children (even a smiling little madam) featured in it. Needless to say, I have very fond memories of this experience.
Now, this brings us to experience number four, the experience of the current year, that took place only a couple of weeks ago. We returned, once again, to our local shopping centre - the one that now has an improved reputation thanks to Myer. Although, not for long as I hear that Myer is being replaced by Harris Scarfe sometime in the New Year and it will, therefore, no doubt become the dingy shopping centre it once was - and sought out Santa, following several pleas from little madam that she'd like to see him. It was late in the morning, on a Sunday, when we arrived and, after locating the jolly old soul (the same one from the year before AND the year before that...geez, he must really love kids I'm guessing!), we joined a queue behind ten-or-so other excited little children (and their anxious looking parents). This time, little madam was not distracted in the queue by Santa's surrounding decor, and she waited patiently. Little man, on the other hand (I realised as the wait time in the queue passed the half-hour point) was the one who was going to pose a problem. I can't really blame him. Half an hour is a long time for a little person to sit still. So, after making enough noise to wake a dead cat, I ended up getting him out of his pusher and holding him. Anyway. Little madam seized the opportunity, at this point in time, and took a seat in the pusher - her little legs were probably tired of waiting, too. I didn't think anything of this, at the time. It wasn't until we eventually got to the front of the queue (almost an entire hour after arriving, believe it or not), that this - the fact that little madam had found herself a comfy spot - became a problem. Now I don't know whether it was the intimidating photographer (she was a woman, by the way. I'm not sure whether I've mentioned this before, but little madam has always been much keener on men), or whether it was the fact that little madam simply got sick of waiting. But when she was invited, by the over-enthusiastic photographer, to come and take a seat on Santa's knee, she refused to budge.
Now unfortunately, with a long queue of people behind us, I didn't feel that there was time for negotiations, so I simply insisted that she get out of the pusher. She, again, refused to budge. My final attempt to try and get her to stand up out of the pusher involved an even firmer demand (as I glanced at the impatient queue of people waiting behind) which resulted in her turning to daddy with tears in her eyes and pleading with him desperately. Of course, there was no way Mr Softy (aka daddy) was going to force a tear-streamed little madam out of her comfortable position in the pusher and onto Santa's lap, so my battle had been lost. In the end, a lovely photograph of little man on Santa's knee was captured; he managed to smile for just long enough for the shot to be taken before he realised he wasn't all that keen on Santa.
Now for the dummy spit part. And ,for a change, it wasn't little madam or little man responsible. Embarrassingly enough, it was me. After rescuing a terrified-looking little man from Santa's lap, I made my way over to the table where the price-list for the photos was located. And it was then, that I realised, that I'd just waited an entire hour for little madam - the little madam who'd pleaded with us to be taken to see Santa - to not feature with little man in one lousy photograph that was going to set me back almost thirty dollars. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't the money that was the problem - although, prices had risen significantly since the year before as I remember paying just under twenty-five dollars for an entire pack of photographs! A pack that even included a nice calendar! - it was the principal. So I began to express my disgust at little madam, who was now glaring at me from the safety of little man's pusher. I expressed my disgust (ie. spat the dummy) so loudly, that daddy was forced to remind me that I was in the middle of a busy shopping centre; not to mention the fact that I was probably overreacting slightly to the situation.
So there you have it. Santa experience number four. And probably the last one I'll bother with; EVER! Alright. Probably not. I'll probably forget my woes in a few weeks and be back for more punishment with the fat man in red next year. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
Thanks, little madam, for making me wait an HOUR in a queue to see a fat man in a red suit. Sorry about the dummy spit, by the way. I have to admit, now that I can look back and laugh...well, almost...it wasn't an entirely necessary reaction. I guess I can blame that on being HUMAN! Sorry, also, to little man for making you sit on Santa's knee; despite the fact that it wasn't an entirely enjoyable experience. Love you both!
And for those who've been reading, and hopefully enjoying, my blog (even if you've only gotten around to read one or two posts), thank you very much. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my stories, which are all about what it's like to be caught up in the chaos that is motherhood (or parenthood, of course), and I hope you continue to enjoy them in the New Year. I probably will take a short break (a couple of weeks) and be back to update you with more madness in the first week of 2012! Until next time, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
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