Here comes Santa Clause

In our little town, when it gets close to Christmas, Santa comes around on the firetruck to talk to the little ones and dispense some candy.

Now, Pooter ( my 4 year old’s new internet nickname!), has had his share of Santa sightings this season, including one Santa who must have awful tendonitis from all the elbow bending he’s been doing. In case you didn’t catch that, Santa was a lush.

The firetruck Santa, though, you can’t get any better than that. You have Santa and you have a firetruck. Add a train and a puppy and you have Pooter’s every reason to live right there in one big unwieldy pile.

Before Santa came, I’d spent the better part of the evening trying to convince Pooter to clean his room. I wasn’t expecting hospital corners on the bed or gleaming baseboards, but a path through the jungle of books and toys would be nice. I feel that if I’ve provided both bookcase and toybox, I’ve done my part.

I even called Pookie and had him talk to the boy, ending with Pooter happily tottering off to his room to clean, clean, clean. Unfortunately, the gravitational pull of the mess sucked him in, causing him to forget, forget, forget.

So, while Santa was here; after pleasantries had been exchanged and candy had been given to the deserving (and me!), I took advantage of Santa’s presence and asked him to talk with Pooter about his room. Santa explained how he can’t bring any more toys if there’s no place to put them, which is the exact same logic I had used not an hour earlier, but I guess it sounds better coming from the Big Guy, because that room is getting cleaner by the minute.

Oh, and while Santa and I were chatting, he remarked on how we still had those big dogs and reminded me that he had been in our house before. See, Santa is a police officer and had helped us with a little breaking and entering issue we’d had a few years ago.

His fireman escorts didn’t know why he’d been in our house, so I told them, ‘It’s not because I did anything wrong!’, to which one of them replied, ‘Oh, yeah, you’re just a naughty girl.’

And then I squealed and giggled and hit him on the arm.

Ok, I didn’t squeal or giggle or hit, but it was a close thing. Apparently I’m a lot closer to my inner 14 year old than I thought.

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