Dear Sir or Madam…

To whom it may concern,

I am humbly writing to you, Sir or Madam, to file a formal complaint against Santa Claus.  While on His momentous journey across the globe collecting requests from children good and naughty, He stopped at the local mall for a stint (today if that helps with his identification, at all).   And unfortunately, so did we.

Believe it or not, we were the only beleagured travellers there to see Him at 1pm today.  I was bedazzled with the snow and the elves as we approached on the red carpet, while my sweet, much too smart, five year old daughter (Bean) was busy verbalizing the extreme doubt that nestled in her furrowed brow.   

“What is he doing here?  He’s looking at me.  How did he get here?  You aren’t actually taking me over there, are you?  Unless you’ve met him before Mom, he’s a stranger.  I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.   Remember?  Can I call grandma?”  She said, in the unique way that only a five year girl can constantly chatter without taking a breath.

“It’s Santa sweetie.  He got here on an airplane because the reindeer are resting.  And I did meet him once when I was a little girl.  Remember?  You saw the picture.  So he’s technically not a stranger.  But other strange men in red suits, well any suits, or clothes of any kind sitting on a throne-like chair waving at you are strangers and you shouldn’t talk to them.”  I said.

“So if the strange man waving at me isn’t wearing clothes, it’s ok to talk to him?” 

“What man isn’t wearing clothes?”  I asked as I whipped my head around. 

“You said if a strange man is wearing clothes of any kind and waving, not to talk to him.”  She said in a heavy whisper while  she shielded her mouth with her hand, as if Santa could read lips.  “So I was wondering if that meant I could talk to a strange man who wasn’t wearing any…” 

“Goodness no!  You would NEVER talk to a man who wasn’t wearing clothes!!  Oh, nevermind, we will talk about that more later.”  I said firmly in a whisper while shielding my mouth from Santa.  She giggled.

The elves were all staring at us.  So it was time for us to make our move, Sir or Madam.  Sorry for the conversational background, but I am sure that it’s relevant.  Stay with me. 

Bean still doubted that she should approach Santa so she asked for my accompaniment which, of course, I granted.  While I stared, starry eyed at the bearded man, the doubt that had pooled in her eyes was dissolving.  He smiled at her.  I smiled at her.  She smiled at me.  She smiled at him.  Eureka!

“What do you want for Christmas, Bean?”  Santa innocently asked her.

She turned and looked at me in astonishment. She put her hand to her mouth again and whispered back at me that he was talking to her.  “I know!  Answer him sweetie.” 

She turned confidently and said “A turtle.”  Then she giggled.

“Ho ho ho!”  Santa replied with a very genuine belly laugh.  “A turtle?”  He questioned her, loud enough for me to hear because it was supposed to be a secret.  Good strategy on his part. 

But Santa must have recently attended a sales conference in which he was taught clarification strategies as well.  I ask you Sir or Madam, is it necessary to further qualify what a child means by a turtle?

“What kind of turtle, Bean?”  He said with a smug all-knowing Santa smile.

“Actually, a Red-eared slider turtle.  A real one, of course.”    She enthusiastically replied.  She turned to me and pointed to Santa.  “He’s still talking to me!”  She giggled with happiness. 

I admit, I was charmed by her sweetness.  Charmed by the ease in which she named a real turtle that inhabits rivers and streams throughout the central USA.  And charmed that her doubt had been replaced by unbridled excitement.  Up to this point, Sir or Madam, Santa had done very well indeed.  But then…

“A real one?”  He asked.  Again, I ask you, is this kind of question necessary?  For the Love of God.  She was nodding.  “Well, since you have been such a good girl this year, and if you promise to leave me a chocolate chip cookie with chocolate milk, I will bring you a red-eared slider turtle, Bean.  Ho Ho Ho!”

Excuse me, what was that? 

“A real one?”  She asked while trying to stifle happy tears. 

“Of course!”  Then the bastard in red winked at me.  “HO HO HO!”  He said heartily.

WTF?  Sir or Madam, I am sorry for the outburst.  BUT WTF???  Of Course???

Since when does Santa promise to bring real pets?  I did NOT get that memo. 

We walked away from Santa then.  She with a new hero and I in total disgust. 

Happiness beamed from her every pore, and as we walked out of the mall, she said “Thank You so much for taking me to Santa Mommy!  That was the best!!  He talked to me!  He’s bringing me a real turtle!  Even you won’t let me get a real turtle!  He knew my name!  You were right, he wasn’t a stranger!  I know you said I shouldn’t but I would talk to him even if he wasn’t wearing clothes!”

Oh.  My.  God. 

Sir or Madam, please consider this my first of many complaints.  I am sure that over the years this day will serve to ruin me somehow.  And on the day after Christmas, while children everywhere bask in the glory of Santa, if in the alley behind Santa’s workshop you find a naked man in a throne-like chair holding a turtle, you will have been warned.

Regards,

Mom in hell