Soccer Mom 2.0

by John Christmann

Every year at this time Santa Claus descends on the mall where I live. He spends a few days there, usually with a photographer and an elf with bad acne, and then jets off to the Cayman Islands where he deposits large sums of cash generated from thousands of personal appearances conducted simultaneously across every mall in the country. I don’t actually know this to be true, but given that he sneaks into our homes unannounced every year, I certainly have a right to be suspicious.

Encountering so many Santas at the same time is very difficult to explain to children, but no more so than explaining the art of climbing down a chimney or the science of reindeer propulsion. Here I have always been very honest with my kids. I tell them there are many parallel universes and that at Christmas time a wormhole opens up connecting them all.
“This is just one of many possible Santas,” I inform them knowingly.
My eldest scoffs at this, and then hands me a well-worked sheet of paper.
“This is just one of many possible Christmas lists, Dad,” he says.

Despite my cynicism at this time of year, I believe that it is my job as parent to expose my kids to those special holiday traditions they will cherish forever. Even when it involves something I dread. Which is why, on a slushy December evening a few years ago when Christmas was still new and fresh in my kids’ imaginations, I set out to the mall for a perfect holiday photograph of my children sharing their Christmas wishes with Santa. I quickly discovered that on any given night prior to Christmas, pretty much all of New Jersey is shooting the same perfect photo.

When we arrived, there was a long line originating from a sign stating that Santa was feeding his reindeer and would return in five minutes. It didn’t say five minutes from when, so we waited with high hopes. To their credit, my children stood patiently for a long while. I gave them cookies and told them how when I was a kid I went downtown to Macy’s to get my picture taken with Santa. They didn’t really have malls back then, I told them.
“I didn’t know Santa was that old,” commented my son.

But after forty minutes they could no longer withstand the pain of standing lifelessly in hot, uncomfortable holiday clothes saturated in recycled air and stale Christmas muzak. They began to squirm and complain. “Daddy, why can’t we just go through the wormhole to another mall?” whined my daughter.

Just then, Santa emerged to the sound of cheers—mostly from parents. Judging from the strained expression of joy that formed across Santa’s face, I surmised that Rudolph would probably be enlisted as a designated driver late after the mall closed. We waited another thirty minutes as the families in front of us clamored aboard Santa’s lap to share their lengthy Christmas wishes and have their pictures taken. “Ho Ho Ho,” laughed Santa. Flash, went the camera. Down plopped the children. “Next,” cried the elf. It was all very warm and spirited like that.

By the time Santa was ready for us my kids were in complete disarray. My daughter had lost her headband and was pushing hair from her face with hands covered in Oreo remains. Her twin brother was rolling around in his winter sweater eradicating slushy boot prints from the floor. My oldest son, whose initial enthusiasm had since transcended to excruciating boredom, was sulking off by himself. “This is stupid.” he said. At that moment, I couldn’t really argue with him.

As Santa motioned us forward my daughter started to cry. She had just smeared Oreo cream across the front of her new Christmas dress. Her brother, who was far less concerned about his appearance, eagerly climbed on Santa’s lap. He was filthy. My older son, sensing impending chaos, became reinvigorated with the spirit of holiday photography. He bolted next to Santa and immediately held up his fingers to make bunny ears behind Santa’s head.

The photographer picked up his camera. “One . . .” he began.
“Wait!” I shouted, running into the frame to prop up my sobbing daughter who was trying to run away.
“Two . . .” said the photographer.
“Cheese!” screamed my son in Santa’s ear as I hurriedly secured his sister under Santa’s arm.
“Three . . .” said the photographer.
I jerked away from the festive yuletide set yelling “smile!” and was instantly blinded by a flash of intense blue light that exploded from under a reflective umbrella trimmed with tinsel. “Ho Ho Ho,” laughed Santa. Down plopped the children. “Next,” cried the elf. And before we knew it we were back in the cold December traffic heading silently for home.

In the back seat my kids quickly slumped over fast asleep. They were exhausted. Through the rear view mirror they looked like angels dreaming of sugar plums. It was the perfect holiday picture. And in that instant I realized that in my own selfish quest to manufacture the perfect holiday photo, I had forgotten the fundamental law of Christmas: At this time of year, when all of the universes lie exposed, there are many possible photographs. All we have to do is look for them.

On my desk in one of my many alternate universes, there exists a perfectly composed photograph of my three kids smiling pristinely on Santa’s lap. In the universe I currently inhabit, I have a photo on my desk too. In it, Santa has one arm wrapped around my oldest son, gently pinning his arms down. His younger bother, who can’t seem to get Santa’s attention, is scowling and reaching for Santa’s beard. On the other side of Santa, held safely under his remaining arm, my daughter is wailing at the injustice of her incarceration. And in the forefront, blocking the entire left portion of the photograph is my retreating head, with the faint echoes of “smile” still formed on my lips. The only person truly smiling in the photograph is Santa, who is clearly enjoying my unique method for creating the perfect holiday photograph.

Here is the thing about photographs: Sometimes it takes one thousand words just to understand how much they are worth.

Oh, and here is the thing about the magic of Christmas: It happens regardless of what we do. Sometimes the magic happens because of us. Sometimes the magic happens in spite of us. But somehow it happens.

© 2007 Dadinthebox.com