Harrison was totally enamored with the idea of Santa Claus all December. A man brings toys? For free? Without him having to poop on the potty? AH-MAZING. We didn’t see Santa to sit on his lap this year, for a few reasons:
- Lines with a three-year-old. No, thank you.
- It’s expensive for a picture of my kid (more than likely) in tears.
- Mall traffic.
- Zero time with work & parties & other holiday festivities.
- Lines with a three-year-old.
Instead, the security guys at my company ran a “calls from Santa” program and I signed up for it and one night, my cell phone rang with “Santa.” Harrison was THRILLED to talk to him, to tell him that he wanted Mater Monster Trucks and that he’d been a very good boy all year and yes, he would listen to Momma.
Then we watched an old holiday classic, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and it really sank in for Harrison that Santa would come into our house while he slept. But he seemed okay with it because TOYS.
So imagine our surprise when he woke up in tears on Christmas morning, terrified that Santa had come. Terrified that a strange man in a weird suit had come into our house while he was sleeping. Terrified that maybe he hadn’t come.
I mean, I get it. Sometimes I lie awake at night after I hear a thump wondering if a stranger is coming into our house and I’m an adult with 911 on speed dial and a nine iron beside my bed.
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