Really, Santa? REALLY?

Last night, we made our annual pilgrimage to worship at the altar of Shopping Mall Santa (sorry, clearly there’s a little too much Jesse Tree going on up in here), and let’s just say that IT DID NOT GO WELL.

I’m still mad, to tell you the truth, and friends, those are three little words you absolutely do not want to sum up your kids’ visit with Santa.

I’m. Still. Mad.

Our annual Santa visit is always somewhat stressful– Although we typically go on a week night and visit the ritzy, less-popular mall in order to avoid long Santa lines, that means that we’ve got to eat first, because Daddy has just gotten off of work and Daddy is starving and trust me, you don’t want Hungry Daddy in a Santa line. We like to eat at the mall’s Panera, where the kids get macaroni and cheese and bread with lots of butter and chocolate chip cookies and yes, that woman yelling “Seriously? You just spilled a bowl of mac and cheese IN YOUR LAP?!” and “HOW DID YOU GET JAM IN YOUR HAIR?! WHAT?!” over there at the corner table is me, thank you very much.

Because of the shorter Christmas season this year (What’s up with that, Thanksgiving? Could you be any more passive aggressive?), we visited Santa a little later than normal this year, which meant that despite the fact that it was a weeknight, the line was ridiculously long and, to make matters worse, it was filled with wealthy mouth-breathers. I’m not trying to be mean here. IT’S JUST TRUE.

First, a nattily-dressed young couple marched up to Santa, plopped their two-year-old in his lap, and proceeded to laugh hysterically and snap pictures on their iPhones for several long minutes as she screamed and cried and begged them to rescue her from Death by Jolly Old Elf. Now I love a Bad Santa photo as much as anyone– but while it’s one thing to grab your kid as soon as he starts screaming and inadvertently end up with a hilarious photo, it’s another thing altogether to stand there laughing at your child and clearly thinking only about how great this is gonna look on your Facebook page.

After a long, long while, that fiasco ended and another twee couple with a toddler approached Santa’s throne. They put their kid in Santa’s lap and then took their places on either side of the photographer. Clearly, they had A Plan. The mom whipped out a favorite toy and began shaking it wildly, saying, “Come on, honey! Smile! Smile!” The dad… Well… He just kind of lost it. Dropping his Casually Upscale Young Father facade entirely, he began jumping up and down like a deranged jack-in-the-box, a joker’s grin plastered across his face. “Bweeee! Bweeeeee!” he squawked at his tiny daughter. “BWEEEE! BWEEE!” I. Was. Dying. He performed this bizarre ritual a few times while I shook with silent laughter in line– and then, predictably, the kid burst into tears. At that point, the couple gave up and scooped up their child from Santa’s lap.

Next up was a couple of hipsters who clearly thought a photo with Santa would be IRONICAL, followed by a family with a 13-year-old hair tosser who couldn’t have been more humiliated to have to sit with her younger siblings in a Santa photo, O.M.G.

And then- finally– it was our turn.

“Is this the Santa that always wants to talk about Channel 4?” Dennis whispered as we waited to be called up.

“I don’t know,” I said. “They all look alike to me.”

“I’m going to lay low,” he murmured. “Just in case.”

In years past, you see, we’ve had a little trouble with a certain Santa who happens to be a rabid Channel 4 fan. He gets so excited when he sees Dennis that a few times, he’s dropped the Santa front entirely. This was bad enough when the kids were preschoolers and didn’t really understand what was going on anyway, but it would be far worse now that we have a very inquisitive six-year-old. (Mercifully, our nine-year-old decided this year that Santa is a big fake. That’s another story for another time.)

And so, as the kids went straight to Santa, Dennis slunk over to the photographer’s counter, where he kept his back turned. Photographs were taken first, and then, while the kids spoke to Santa, I chose a package and paid. At last, fairly awful photos in hand, we went to collect the kids– and that’s when it happened.

“Dennis Ferrier,” Santa boomed. “Well, hello!”

“Hi, SANTA,” Dennis said, looking nervously at the kids. “How are things in the North Pole?”

“Heh,” Santa chuckled. “How are things at Channel 4? You know, I saw that story you did on the drug dealers and…”

“LET’S GO, KIDS,” I said quickly. “SANTA IS VERY BUSY TONIGHT AND THERE ARE A LOT OF PEOPLE WAITING IN LINE.”

The kids stood up. Bruiser was frowning. “What’s wrong?” I asked him, bending over.

“I didn’t get to tell Santa what I wanted,” he whispered in my ear.

“What?” I said. “What were you guys talking about all that time?”

“He was asking us questions about Daddy,” Punky said.

I took both the kids’ hands and took them back to Santa.

“…blah blah blah blah Channel 4, blah blah blah blah,” Santa was saying to Dennis.

“Um, Santa?” I said. He kept talking. “Santa,” I said louder, “I hate to interrupt, but the kids didn’t get a chance to tell you what they want for Christmas.”

He paused and looked up at me. “Oh,” he said. He turned to the kids. “I’m sorry I… overlooked that,” he said lamely.

Wasting no time, Bruiser stepped up to him and said quickly, “I want a Skylander Swap Force and Lego Monster Fighters.”

“Okay,” Santa said. “And what about you?” he asked Punky.

“I’d like a scooter,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. He turned back to Dennis and I quickly herded the kids out of there.

I mean.

WHAT.

I’ve seen some pretty awful Santas in my time, but never in my life have I experienced a Santa who FORGOT TO ASK MY KIDS WHAT THEY WANTED FOR CHRISTMAS. Really, Santa? Is that too much to ask these days? REALLY?!

I’ve tried to be more tolerant as I’ve aged. To give people the benefit of the doubt. But this time, Santa, you’ve gone too far. It’s time to make it official.

A mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do.