Noah vs. Santa

I'm not sure what possessed me to take my two year old to visit Santa today.

My husband had to work, and I'm currently sporting a wrist brace that leaves me fairly incapable of doing anything useful with my dominant hand.

But I decided today would be a good day to visit Santa. St. Nick found time in his busy schedule to visit our local mall, though I'm not sure why. This shopping area is typically a ghost town, but it does transform into shopping central on the last Saturday before Christmas.

We walked, which was wise - not as wise as the three magi, but well, smarter than driving. It meant I could strap young Noah into his stroller and have a chance at shopping while we waited for Santa to arrive.

You see, timing was my first mistake. Normally Noah goes down for his nap around 12:30pm, a nap he desperately needs considering his fall-asleep-for-the-night time has been around 11pm lately. So rather than check Santa's schedule, I just assumed he would be there waiting for us when we arrived at 12:15.

No way, Momma. Of COURSE Santa's only working limited hours. It's practically Christmas, after all.... so we shopped around locally for 45 minutes until the big man in red finally arrived at 1pm.

In the meantime we got a few last minute gifts, and Noah practiced his four-limbed attack on all things shiny and breakable. We were only banned from one store this time around, which is a 300% improvement from last year's holiday banishment score.

At 12:55 Noah spotted Santa taking his seat in his tinsel-covered throne. 

"SANTAAAAAAAAA!" Noah screamed across the mall. "DON'T HIT SANTA!"

Oh for the love of St. Nicholas.

I'm glad that we taught Noah the "don't hit" rule. It was perfectly effective in training him to keep his hands to himself in regards to other children, friends' babies, and small dogs with big teeth.

But it makes people stare when he uses it indiscriminantly (even though it's still a correct self-affirmation).

In the last two weeks alone, he's publicly declared:

Don't hit Jesus!
Don't hit baby Jesus!
Don't hit the doctor!
Don't hit old lady!
Don't hit Grandma!
Don't hit the candy!
Don't hit Mickey Mouse!
Don't hit Oprah!
Don't hit Nemo!

and finally..

DON'T HIT SANTA!

Santa actually HEARD that decree, and looked up across the crowded mall to raise a white-gloved hand and share a hearty "ho ho ho!" with my hit-obsessed son.

That sent him over the edge. "I SEE SANTA! I SEE HIM! NO HIT HIM! I SEE SAAAAAAAAAAAAAANTA!"

Thank God the line was short. Noah leaped from my arms and waddled like a hurried penguin over to the big man. Santa scooped him up and placed him expertly on his knee.

It was like watching a horror movie. Noah's excitement drained from his face, his lower lip quivered for a moment, and he looked at me with puppy dog eyes.

"SANTA ALL DONE!" he announced in desperation.

Sigh. Another year, another photo with Santa.

Oh well. At least Noah didn't hit him!