With only 9 shopping days to go, the silly season is well and truly underway. Shops and malls are decked with Christmas decorations (OK, so they’ve been up since around the end of October, but I prefer to ignore them until the timing’s right). Boney M starts singing ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ the moment I walk in through each shop entrance, and seems to be stuck on ‘repeat’ until I leave. And numerous shelves, filled with crackers, expensive gift packs for him/her and red, white & green novelty gifts are strategically positioned to prevent you steering your laden trolley out of the store in a straight line, instead forcing you to take the scenic maze in search of the exit.
Our local mall has also employed a full-time Santa Klaus to pose for photos beneath a massive tree, with children (usually wide-eyed with terror) on his knee. I tried to convince my elder son to have his photo taken with Santa, but he eventually persuaded me that the sight of an 18 year old, six foot six, ‘boy’ heading for his lap would probably send Santa running for Lapland (or Umhlanga, which is much closer & way more appealing), so we gave that idea a miss.
Yesterday, my younger son (16 and rapidly approaching six foot) and I went to the Mall and I tried to see if he’d fall for the whole ‘go and have your photo taken with Santa’ thing. I’m a really cool mom when it comes to embarrassing my sons at every possible opportunity. Unfortunately, he’s become wise to my ways and didn’t take the bait.
But he did try turning the tables on me. “Hey, Mom, check – Santa’s giving you the ‘come hither’ look!”
Really? Does he really think I’d fall for that by turning to see whether Santa was checking me out from behind? And does he honestly imagine that I’d experience even a hint of a thrill at the thought of being ogled by a fat bearded old man who wears a thick red suit & black boots in the middle of a Durban summer?
“He’s probably thinking ho-ho-ho kind of thoughts about you Mom!”
“Well he’d better not think of calling me a ho, ho, ho!” I retorted, managing to emabarrass my son into giving up on trying to embarrass me.
We had to go back to the Mall again today (joy of joys – not) and, as luck would have it, we had to go past Santa to get to the last shop on our list.
As I hurried in the direction of the shop, I was startled out of my don’t-look-left-or-right-just-get-finished mode by a sudden flash of red popping into my path. I moved my focus from the target shop entrance to the red distraction.
Santa had left the comfort of his chair under the tree and was standing in front of me, his merry eyes twinkling, a cheery smile peeking through his very realistic-looking snow white beard.
“Hello!” he greeted (lucky for him he didn’t say ho-ho-ho, because that would have resulted in millions of disappointed children come the 25th).
“Er … hello” I mumbled back, wondering what I had to do to wake up from this stupid dream.
I somehow managed to limit our conversation to that mutual greeting and zoned back in on the shop ahead of me, unsuccessfully trying to ignore my son’s smug chuckles and comments of “I TOLD you he was giving you the ‘come hither’ look, Mom, now do you believe me?!?”
I waited until Santa had a terrified child on his lap before making my escape.
And if my son so much as thinks of singing ‘I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Klaus’, he’s going to be one of those disappointed children on Christmas morning!
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