Here is a phenomenon I had not considered before becoming a parent: the Holiday photo with Santa.
We had our yearly celebrations with the Santa photos of youth. I, in my puffy vests and corduroys, and my brother, Keith, in his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, obscured slightly by the red and screaming mask of tears.
Those were olden times, when boys were boys and Santas were sometimes drunkards with scraggly string beards.
The modern holiday scene is something different. I never anticipated shiny, new Santas– freshly laundered and looking authentic, complete with real beards. For a parent looking to recreate the schmaltz of youth for his own offspring, this is a jarring discovery.
Where do they come from, these realistic Santas? Is there a secret Santa training ground? Professional headshots? Toddler tug-tested beards? Is this the accumulated and magical result of all those years of lies and deception?
In holiday excursions I have discovered something more horrifying: there is a subculture of Santa-seekers scouring malls and department stores for The. Perfect. Santa. True holiday joy is now a parent capturing such a Yeti-Santa, pinned-down in a photo with their less-than-perfect offspring.
Light-speed spread: news of high-quality Santas in local malls. Parents pounce, creating lines no decent child could tolerate. That these lines lead to haggard- and bedraggled-looking Santa photos is even more special. We are creating holiday memories here!
In line at the “best” local Santa, with our then one year-old daughter, I encountered a scene of unparalleled disturbance.
The family of six stood in front of us; already bedecked in their best dressy sweatpants and jeans. The four boys twisted and wiggled under the wilting pressures of waiting in the interminable mass of humanity. Each boy featured near shoulder-length hair and different shades of dirt. Their parents spoke aloud to one another, offering hard-edged assessments of everything, including their own offspring. Not, apparently, of their hygiene.
The oldest boy (about 15) ran off into a clothing store after his father, for no discernible reason, repeatedly chastised him about being a girl. The wife later gave the father a hard time about this, saying, “If you keep saying that he might turn into a girl!”
The youngest child–the one with angelic features, most resembling a girl–got his hair tangled on:
- a toy
- his brother’s jacket
- his own hand
- the line-up rope holding in the swarming Santa crowd.
The second youngest boy reached into his sweatpants with both hands. He slipped beneath his underwear, plumbing the depths of his rectum with all ten of his fingers, one disappearing up to his wrist between his butt cheeks.
I tried to ignore all of the things he touched afterward, but I did want to offer disinfecting wipes to everyone in line behind them. If only these existed for mental images. By the time we arrived at the front, not even a blowtorch would have cleaned Santa’s lap. Get up there, kid–you are taking your chances! Childhood memories like these can hurt.
And burn.
And sting.