Santa. What an annoying asshole. I hate all the deceit that he engenders with his demands for letters and attention and visits to his grotty shopping centre grottos. Riker will be ten in February and I have no clue as to where she stands on this massive, annoying lie.
I learned the truth at seventeen, that love was meant for beauty queens, but the Santa truth came to me at seven. I was first down, way before my three year old sister and it seemed right to me that I should have the pick of the potential presents. There wasn't a whole lot of shit in Ellie's stocking that I wanted for my own, but a pretty green frog purse instantly caught my eye. Sometimes I wonder at my alleged sexuality. I moved the purse from her sock to mine. My bustedness thirty minutes later combined with my having caught a glimpse of hastily shut wardrobe doors led me to the inevitable conclusion that this was all a load of shit and that my parents were once again, lying to me.
Ans so to the much older and wiser Riker. She related the story this morning of her friend who had already written to Santa, without the knowledge of her parents, and asked for a mobile phone. Because her parents said she couldn't have one. This was a water-testing tale, I could tell. I remained non-commital, threw out a couple of 'Oh's and gently suggested that Santa was as privy to the wishes and wants of parents as to those of the kiddies.
Riker is getting a bike for Christmas. To go with the new outrageously expensive swimming lessons. Soon I'll have her running around the block too, determined as I am that this be her fate. You should watch that shit. Fatmammycat had it up a while back but the hilarity of the wobbly walk bit never fails to bring howls of laughter to my jaded throat.
So how's the bike thing going to work? Clearly we, her long-suffering parents, are the ones forking out the cash. But the trouble that it will take to pretend to hide this unalterable fact just so that we can make her feel better about making us feel better seems both too pointed and too pointless. And yet, I expect, until she utters the magic, long yearned for words 'Santa's not real, is he?' then that is exactly how it's going to go down.
Good thing I drummed all that Jesus shit out of her early doors.
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