I think I've done something wrong.

I took my little son, Ethan Reginald, to see Santa at the mall, and you would have thought a murder was committed, the way my child screamed and carried on.

I had taken his older sisters, Meredith (Merri) Holiday (now six) and four-year-old Tinsley Grace, to see Santa Claus at our local mall when they were Ethan's age, and the girls didn't really raise a fuss.  They were sure they knew what they wanted for Christmas, and they were going to tell the Jolly Old Elf exactly what they were wishing for:  a nice, yellow teddy bear (Merri) and purties and clothes for dolly (Tinsley).

They marched up to Santa Claus like he was an old, trusted friend (or their grandpa), climbed up into his lap, and whispered their Christmas dreams into his ear. 

Santa was more than happy to oblige.  It was a smooth operation; I was very proud of my girls.

With Ethan, however, it was different, a totally different scenario altogether.

Yesterday, we started out in the mad holiday rush that's the tradition the day after Thanksgiving.  The Christmas shopping season had officially begun.  We left before seven; we wanted to make sure that we got a hold of some of the bargains they were advertising.  The kids were fed, washed, ready, raring to go. 

They had one objective:  to see Santa Claus, tell him what they wanted for Christmas.

Simple enough. 

Even little Ethan was stoked, as only little boys can be.  He wanted to tell Santa that he wanted a race car set for Christmas.  He was going to tell him; not even sharks in the waters or polar bears lying on ice caps could keep him from seeing Santa.  He was way excited.

When the time came, however, for the children to see Santa, Ethan started acting a little nervous.  To see the Jolly Old Elf in person, sititng upon his throne, put a spark of fear in his little body.  He was sure that Santa would know that he'd pushed Merri on Thanksgiving Day, the day before, because she'd tried to take his turkey drumstick away from him, and that he wouldn't get his present because he'd been bad.

Whereupon, Ethan started shaking nervously.  His big, blue eyes filled with tears, his chin and lower lip trembled, and you could very well tell that he was going to have a meltdown--or at least, a good crying session.  It put me on edge; I was hoping that it would go without incident; it didn't appear that it was going to be the case.

By the time it was his turn, Ethan started wailing like a fire engine.  I wanted desperately for him to stop crying; when it was his turn to see Santa, he was in full-blown meltdown mode.  He cried.  He howled.  He screamed, screamed loud enough to nearly burst people's eardrums that were within proximity of where he was.  In fact, you could probably hear him halfway throughout the mall complex.

Nothing, not even a coloring book, crayons, or a candy cane from Santa, could quiet him.  He screamed the entire time he sat on Santa's lap, and it only got worse.  I had to physically remove Ethan from Santa's lap, apologize to Santa for his behaviour, and then slink off, hoping that nobody mistook me for a bad parent for torturing my youngest child against his will.

The rest of the trip at the mall went downhill from there.  The girls were mad at their little brother for messing up their Santa experience, I was embarrassed because he'd acted up in an unpredictable manner, and by the time we'd gotten to the items that were on sale, they were gone, or picked over.  I ended up with hardly anything in my cart, and three cranky children.

It was a nightmare, and now I am beginning to see why many people hate Christmas.

(End of part one.)

*My sweet, dear twin sister told me this very joke while I was in the hospital AFTER stomach surgery!!  The LAST thing I wanted to do was laugh!!  ARGGGH!!!!!  LOL