“For claymation, that’s one hot chick.”
OK. Not a sentence a gal hears her husband say every day. Not even mine.
I could only shake my head and ask in disbelief, “Did you really just say those words? Together? In a row?” I snorted and added, “I think it’s time to put down the beer.”
He put down said beer then pointed to the television where “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” blared happily in front of our five-year-old son.
“Come on! Look at her,” he said. “Blonde hair. Blue eyes. And she’s – like – 60 years old, but she’s still hot.”
I snorted. “The show’s not that old. 40. She’s not a day over 40. And you know the hair is a wig, right?”
He shot me a nasty look and answered, “You’re just jealous.”
Jealous? Of claymation?
I took another look at her. No wrinkles. No gray hair. No extra 20 pounds on the hips. And her boobs didn’t jiggle when she walked.
My husband was right. Claymation rocks.
Later that evening, after watching yet another Christmas classic and witnessing two cartoon creations share a smooch, I smacked my forward and said, “That’s what I forgot to hang in the house – mistletoe!”
“What’s misted toe?” my young son asked. “Do you have to go to the doctor for that?”
I looked down at him, his face eager with the expectation of knowledge.
Kinda like the time I tried to explain the concept of terminal velocity when he asked why his basketball fell faster than a marble when pitched off our second-story balcony.
But I digress…and we promised not to talk about that particular incident anymore.
“Not ‘misted toe’” I laughed. “MISTLEtoe. And it’s awesome!”
I sat down next to him and proceeded to fill in all the wonderful details about the magic of mistletoe. After I finished, I clapped my hands in excitement and asked, “So what do you think?”
His look of eager anticipation had quickly turned to fear. Frankly, I doubt he’d heard anything after the word “kiss” had entered the equation.
He shuddered and answered as only a five-year-old boy can. “Eeeeewwwwww!”
Oh, he’s gonna make some girl so happy one day.
“I know Santa Claus is for real,” my son announced one day after school.
I froze like a reindeer in headlights. Crud. This day had arrived. And I wasn’t ready for it. I thought we had another year. Maybe two before we started this little dance.
But apparently the kids had been talking.
“I…uh…er…whew!” I stumbled. “How about some ice cream? You want ice cream? I think we should go get some ice cream? What about you? Wanna get some ice cream?”
My son said, “It’s 12 degrees outside…of course, I want ice cream. But let me finish.”
Darn. Distraction failed. I should have thrown in an Xbox. That would have done the trick. I sighed.
“I know that Santa Claus is for real,” my son repeated.
I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the question I was about to ask....“How do you know Santa Claus is for real?”
He shrugged and said, “Well, who else would put presents under the tree?”
Oh. God bless the innocence of youth. I nodded in agreement, patted him gently on the head and said, “Who else, indeed.”
And before I could relax from that Dear Diary moment, he moved in for the kill.
“But what about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? Is he real?”
High on the knowledge my son was still in Santa’s corner I quickly answered, “Of course. Don’t you?”
He shook his little blonde head sadly and said, “No, I don’t think so.”
Aw. Crud. Death to Rudolph? I think I’m gonna cry.
“But…he’s in the book…and there’s a song about him…and everything,” I stuttered, trying not to panic but failing miserably. “All the reindeer loved him, you know. They shouted out with glee…and everything….”
My son looked at me with kind eyes that betrayed his pity, “Just because he’s in a book doesn’t make him real, Mom.”
My face fell with sadness at the passing of this small part of his innocence. Sensing my distress, my little boy put his hand on my shoulder and asked, “Wanna go get some ice cream?”