Say Cheese

Ah, the holiday rites of passage. The gift shopping, the gift wrapping, the gift exchanging. And so we are brought to the charming yuletide ritual of pictures with Santa. Otherwise known as Mama Deserves a Week at the Spa Day.

I’m not exactly sure how I fell into this tradition, but I’ve been taking Sammy, and then Sabrina, for a photo with the big guy since the beginning (OK, almost the beginning, since Grandma and Grandpa snuck off with the 3 month old little guy for his initial portrait). At this point, I figure I’ll do it up until the point of Sullen Tweenage Face. I’ve had varying degrees of success over the years, and I’ve managed to escape having a screaming, red-faced child immortalized forever. But make no mistake, it’s a challenge.

Which I certainly expected with Sabrina this year. Sammy, I knew he’d handle it. We’re well past the years when I had to visit Santa half a dozen times before he’d even approach the man, only to require bribes of baked goods to sit on his lap (totally visible in the picture if you know what you’re looking at). No problem there. But my girl. Well. She’s in a phase of developing sudden and paralyzing fears out of the blue (let’s just say trick or treating involved lots of screaming that wasn’t strictly ghoul related), and Santa is one she’s mentioned. So we’d begun the Santa drive bys I was fully prepared to continue as necessary. Sure enough, she went pale at the sight of the jolly old elf and tried to melt into her stroller. But somewhere in the ensuing weeks, she seemed to turn around, getting excited at Santa sighting on TV and talking about the long list of items she would request of him. Encouraged, I made plans to get the shot.

Experience has taught me to go early in the season and early in the day to ensure the most patient of elven photographers. Also, we had the best chance of not holding up a line of other cranky kids. So this being Sammy’s first day of Thanksgiving vacation (just an aside, when did kids start getting all this time off, because I certainly didn’t get a week off for turkey DAY), I gauged the interest level (both kids woke up veritably twinkling at the idea of meeting Santa), wrestled them into photographically appropriate attire, packed potential bribe options, and headed to the mall.

We arrived, sidled up to Santa’s toyshop (er, barn, because for some reason, there was a cowboy theme, for which I am at a loss and about which I have pontificated at length to my husband, so I will spare you) and all was well while we watched some, ahem, older children (OK, grown women, but I will not judge) giggle away for the camera. Sabrina was still happy. Until it was our turn. At which point, she dug in her heels, crossed arms over chest, affixed a serious pout on her face and said, “No.” I pulled out the cookies. I whipped out the new Laurie Berkner DVD I’d been hiding (which got a 15 second favorable response before the scowl reappeared and she denied her previous acquiescence). I’m pretty sure at one point, I offered her a car. The elves helped best they could, and we did the back and forth dance of walking up to Santa a running away so many times I lost count. But, like the sun peeked through the clouds for just a moment, Sabrina miraculously grabbed Sammy’s hand (that sweet boy had just been sitting on Santa’s lap conversating this entire time) and stopped screeching for a handful of seconds that allowed us to get a shot off. And then the clouds quickly filled back in and the tiny terror was off again. But we’d got a non-screaming picture, and even though Santa’s wearing a cowboy hat, I don’t care. It’s done.

I made good on my promises of visits to the bookstore and the new toy store (no, not the car) while we were there, and for a brief moment, there was happiness. I’d even mentioned a possible swing by the Disney store, but Sabrina began to staunchly refuse to leave the toy store by employing her ear-piercing screams, so I stuffed her back in the stroller and marched us all out of the mall. On the way out, I set off the exit alarm for some reason, but the clerk immediately waved me on. I’m pretty sure I could have stolen anything at that moment and they wouldn’t have cared, just to get the wild banshee out of their store. Sabrina continued to build steam all the way home and threw such an epic fit that I half expected pea soup to come flying out of her mouth. Truly, it could go down in the Tantrum Hall of Fame. I really considered drinking my lunch after that.

Thankfully, she wore herself out and is now asleep for what I hope is a marathon nap. And now I can frame this year’s portrait, and have one more thing to be thankful for this Thursday: it’s over.