So breakfast with Santa approached last Saturday. Mr. Fancy pants one and two in their ties loaded up for a feast with the bearded man, Mason excited and Max having not the slightest clue of what was to come. A few mentions of "I'm going to ask Santa for ____" blurted from the backseat on the ride to eat, a few shrill screams from Max in regards to the tie he hated so much. Excitement abound.
When Santa finally came out, Mason was strangely uninterested. Max was paying so much attention to the chocolate chips sprinkled atop his stack of pancakes that a real reindeer standing on our table wouldn't have made for much distraction. I was a little bummed, no one even cared. Was I more excited than my children about Santa Claus? Apparently I was.
Max was less than thrilled. Completely distraught. Hysterical. He took one look back at the exhausted, characterless Santa Claus and lost himself. I couldn't help but laugh irritatingly and snap away, while my poor helpless toddler sat there reaching for help, desperate for his life. Mason stood back just watching it all, refusing to render aid to Max. I finally nudged him over towards Santa and he let out his famous, ear to ear grin just long enough for a picture. Then he briskly forfeited his space next to jolly (er...barely breathing) old, St. Nick. Max was bailed out of Santa's lap and we were done. Done with Santa.
So we like the idea of Santa Claus, sneaking in to our house while were all snuggled in bed, leaving lots of goodies beneath the tree. But meeting Santa, conversing with that man, no thank you.
not even a mouse.
