This morning at breakfast, Mini-Me announced that on Christmas we should leave pumpkin chocolate chip pancakes for Santa instead of cookies. I guess he liked this morning’s breakfast. Score one for me!
Fidget readily agreed to the whole pancakes-instead-of-cookies thing and then reminisced about “that time we gave Santa peppermint Joe-Joe’s” (aka, last Christmas). And the discussion of what to give to Santa continued. There was much enthusiastic debate as to the merits of cookies vs. pancakes and a general agreement as to the deliciousness of peppermint Joe-Joe’s. Then I decided to jump in.“What if we gave Santa coffee instead of milk this year?”
Obviously, it’s my lazy behind that will be eating the cookies/pancakes/whatever and then probably staying up half the night wrapping gifts because I can never seem to get it done until Christmas Eve, and even then I tend to procrastinate until suddenly it’s almost midnight and crap, no gifts are wrapped. I just thought giving Santa, aka ME, some coffee would fuel this whole eat dessert, watch Christmas movie, decided to go to bed, remember I haven’t wrapped gifts, wrap gifts, fall asleep three hours before the boys wake up tradition that Sergeant Handsome and I have going.“Mommy, Santa does NOT drink coffee!”
The looks of utter disgust at the mere suggestion of giving Santa coffee quieted me on the spot. They weren’t just turning down my idea. They were offended by it. I had insulted the great and powerful Santa by hinting that the dude (again, in actuality, ME) might want a little caffeine buzz.
All of the boys just stared at me for a minute after my coffee suggestion was flung aside, as if waiting for me to apologize. I tried to defend myself.“But he has to be awake for 24 hours, don’t you think he’d like a little coffee to help out with that?”
More mute stares of horror. Santa does not simply drink coffee, their eyes said. Caffeine is below the magic of Santa, their horrified expressions communicated. Mommy doesn’t even understand something as simple as Santa Claus, their shaking heads implied.
Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity of stares and head shaking at my ignorance and affront to magical thinking, Fidget came to my rescue. He very gently, in the tone one might use to break bad news to a young child, offered the following suggestion:“You know Mom, what if we give Santa hot cocoa instead? That’s kind of the same, except Santa actually drinks hot cocoa.”
This is me, in my place. Put there by my kids.