Hump Day: Holiday Edition

There are lots of unfortunate people that would help us get over this Wednesdays hump (which seems like a larger than usual hump btw). People who don't celebrate Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza, the siblings of the cute kids in the GAP Holiday commercial, people who, because of their height, are getting paid minimum wage to wear an awful shade of green and work alongside "Santa" at the mall, the snowflakes/Rat King/party guests in The Nutcracker, who, once again, didn't make it to Sugar Plum Fairy Status.

However this week's Humpday helper transcends all: Santa. No no no. Not Virginia's Santa, or Homer Simpson Santa, or Kris Kringle Santa. We mean (please have children under, er, 11 cover their ears) our parents (mothers) posing as Santa.

This has to be the hardest job ever. Both of our mother's are perfectionists, and both sorta slacked in areas when it came to filling this mythical role. One year, my mother used the SAME WRAPPING PAPER that was used for our family. In the same handwriting. In our old house we didn't have a fireplace and were told that Santa came in through the air-conditioning system. Really? This is the same perfect mother that never missed a square inch of skin with sunscreen and singlehandedly got the nuns at my grade school to let little girls be Kings and Sheppards in the Christmas pageant.

Though Paige and her family are obsessed with tradition (ie: still put out cookies, still read "The Night Before Christmas", still get matching christmas jammies from "Mrs. Clause", and STILL tie a rope across the upstairs staircase to ensure that Paige and her 21 year old brother don't sneak down to see presents before they've been given the go-ahead) Santa Tibbetts still did a lackluster job of hiding a ping-pong table one fatefull year and the house of cards crumbled. (Paige's note: but besides that my parents never ever let on and each year Santa seriously hooked me up in ways that were so genius I really thought he "knew when I was sleeping and knew when i was awake", it was almost frightening).

That said, being "Santa" must be a hard job. So we are lucky to not have a five-year old of our own ( for lots of reasons) so that we don't have to get up in the middle of the night and put a gift that will make or break Christmas beneath the catologue-worthy tree. We don't have to wait in line with the kids, waiting to see Santa, when you know perfectly well whatever it is they tell Santa will change by the time you get home. No secretive toy shopping, gift wrapping, stocking stuffing.
We, as non-believers, can now open our gifts, marked in our mother's perfect handwriting, "From: Santa" and know that this magical miraculous man is actually our far more magical and all-knowing mother.
Thanks to our mothers, because without you, there would be no Santa.

And sorry, again, to Mom's whose children are thanking an obese, balding man for all of your hard work. Trust us, you'll get thanked one day.

Forever Your Girl,

Holly