First-time moms and dads learn to parent on the fly, for the most part. My crash course in child-rearing convened at 10:48 p.m. on December 28, 1988, with the birth of my daughter, Brittany. Three Christmases later, she taught me a lesson in setting the example on a day when she managed to parrot her old man’s persona perfectly loud and clear during a shopping mall visit to see Santa.
I thought I’d taken care of every detail that morning, cooking Brittany, pregnant Mom, and me Polish pancakes — eggy and fruit-filled — before heading out more than early enough to beat the rush to line up and lay a wishlist on ‘Ole Saint Nick, who — lucky for us — was wintering in Scottsdale that year. Sure enough, when Brittany and I strolled up to his workshop next to the main food court, there was nary a soul in sight. Stores were only starting to open. We were among the day’s very first customers, and when I read the sign on the North Pole prop that said, “Santa arrives at 11 a.m., boys and girls!” I saw we had another hour to kill before meeting the big guy.
Though we’d had a big breakfast, I decided it might be a good time to treat Brittany to her first Orange Julius. She was mildly interested for a moment in the bubbling, burbling contraption it flowed from, more so than the frothy, creamsicle beverage itself. After two short sips she was done, thirsting for something else entirely.
“Yucky,” she wrinkled her perfectly precious button nose. “Santa over there, Daddy.” She pointed firmly with one little finger.
“Almost, Brittany Lou,” I re-checked the time: 10:10. Drifting over to the next stall, I ordered us a giant pretzel to share: another something new for my getting-anxious baby girl to try.
“We just opened, sir,” a bleary-eyed teen uniformed in brown polyester with mustard yellow piping sounded bothered to have to explain. “The pretzels are probably still frozen. I can microwave it.” Two minutes later, our zapped pretzel bread proved too tough for both baby and grown-up teeth to chew through. We tossed it along with the pudding-cold cheese glop it came with. Unimpressed with two courses from the concessions’ tasting menu, Brittany tugged more temperamentally in the direction of Santa, still some 30 minutes out from his scheduled in-time. I tried walking her around the workshop perimeter, with all its unplugged, animatronic artifice. Frozen, mechanical elves smiled bug-eyed at us, waiting almost eerily for life-giving electrocution like so many little Chucky demon dolls disguised in red, rosy cheeks and green tights. When Brittany began looking hypnotized by the sight and stopped to reach out and touch one, I got creeped out and stepped in.
“Let’s look over here by the reindeer,” I suggested. I grabbed her hand, but by then, neither Rudolph, nutcracker soldiers, nor knee-deep folds of fake, glittering snow could succeed in further distracting my now-demanding daughter from her singular purpose in making this thus far frustrating, tinsel town trip.
“Santa!” She blurted out, bordering on full-blown snit. “Santa.” The chirps turned chant. I checked my watch. 15 minutes. Standing there counting down 900 Mississippis wasn’t an option. I snatched Brittany up onto my shoulders where she loved the bird’s eye view of a world I’d point out to her like pilots do for passengers while flying over particular points of interest. The ride up high that always gave her giggles rendered the desired effect long enough for me to make my way into one of the mall wings, where I tried to interest Little Miss Petulant in a few minutes of window shopping, which worked until we arrived at a storefront where a stuffed Santa stood waving from the other side of the glass.
“Look, sweetheart!” I thought she’d be thrilled. “Just like the real Santa Claus!” From where she sat behind my neck, I never saw her reaction. But I sure heard it: me and an elderly couple seated on a bench right next to where we were standing.
“Santa fucking asshole!” Brittany blurted, top-of-her-lungs. Why? Though it remains sheer speculation on my part to this day, my best guess is that she felt he simply wasn’t where he was supposed to be at that moment; essentially, waiting for her where she’d expected to meet him earlier. Even as the echo of my toddler’s clearly enunciated, first F-bomb rattled around in my brain, I looked to the two senior citizens with whom Brittany and I had shockingly overshared this milestone moment. They glared at me while I died inside, beside myself in a teachable moment I was bound to learn the hard way, being that guy who never gave enough thought to watching what he said in anger, regardless of who was within earshot. They stayed put — eyes on me — stone-faced and making sure I knew they knew that, too. I stood mortified for a few long seconds, not knowing what to say next to them or my child, for that matter, until it came to me.
“Just wait until I tell your father what you said.” I was hoping they’d see some humor in that. The guy gave me a little grin while shaking his head at us. The woman just raised one eyebrow and whispered “pitiful” under her breath when they stood up to leave us alone.
Lifting my little one off my suddenly sagging shoulders, I set her down in front of me before taking a knee to start to set things straight between us.
“Daddy’s wrong when he says words like that, sweetie,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve heard them coming from me. If Santa heard Daddy say those things, I’d deserve a spanking for Christmas. You deserve better from me. And we won’t say those things anymore.”
Minutes later, Brittany got to meet Santa Claus. They had a cute conversation. What happened right before has long since become family Christmas lore for us.
Love you, kiddo.
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