Stitches from Santa

I have social anxiety disorder which I leave untreated due to a very uncomfortable dependency on the drugs that are supposed to balance out my crazy in public situations. All this really means to you is all the shaking, stammering, blushing, gagging awkwardness you see before you is my normal. It doesn’t matter how long I have known you nor how often we get together, I would rather be hiding behind a curtain somewhere. I would do nearly anything to keep my children from inheriting this bucket of lame. Therefore, like a good mother and perhaps a glutton for punishment, I refuse to allow my kids to miss out on any opportunities simply because I would rather not handle social interaction. I figure all parents embarrass their children at one point or another; I just started from birth.

An opportunity arose to see Santa at a nearby shop, and I jumped at the chance. What kid doesn’t want to meet Old St. Nick? After all, The Kraken had drawn him a picture and was hoping to give him his wish list. Long story short, he was thrilled with his encounter. I was thankful the only stranger I was forced to speak to was an old man in a ridiculous red outfit. The Siren however was not impressed. Like a good sport she sat near Santa so I could at least capture the moment on my camera. She seemed more reluctant than scared, so I had the delusion she would warm up with a second visit with the jolly man, which was comforting since I had already signed us up for pancakes with Santa and Mrs. Claus the following Saturday.

When I broke the news to my brood, The Siren began to wail. It seems I didn’t quite catch the hint: my baby girl is in fact terrified of Santa. It’s really hard to force my kid to do things that I myself struggle through, but we had already paid and her brother was so excited. Besides, people say the best way to conquer your fear is to face it. And though it has not been at all true for me, it could work for her, right? As it turns out The Siren had other plans than facing her phobia of synthetic facial hair. Rather than choke down a couple pancakes, stand in a line, sit on Santa’s lap and smile for a picture, she decided instead to bash her lip on the footboard of our bed minutes before departure requiring an emergency room visit and two stiches. Well played, Siren. Well played. And I don’t blame her one little bit.