The North Park Santa Saga

Sleep.  For those of you who know me, I mean really know me, you know how important my (at least) 8 hours are to my mental well-being.  That being said, there is only 1 thing I am willing to give that up for, and it’s - you guessed it - my little man.

And that would explain why I was lined-up at North Park Mall, at 8 am, to secure a ticket for Lake to see Santa.  Yes, you read correctly, a ticket to see Santa.

This story actually beings 1 week ago, when I got up (at my usual 9am) and got Lake all dressed-up for our (now) annual trip to Santa Clause.  I was feeling good about our timing, and hoping that arriving a half-hour before Santa actually began taking photos with the kids would secure us a decent spot in line.  My guesstimate?  Forty-five minute wait to see the big guy.

As we strolled through the mall, there seemed to be an unusually large amount of children already in the corridor listening to Santa’s story-time.  I asked a security guard where to line up for photos, and she pointed in the direction of a young man wearing a red hat.   “Red Hat Guy” handed me a ticket and explained that I should return around 11:30 for Lake’s turn with Santa. 

“Uh, ok.”  I sighed.

A full hour to keep Lake entertained.

I looked at my watch. “I guess I’ll see you around 11:30 then.”

“No, you misunderstood,” explained Red Hat Guy.  “I said 1:30.”

“Are you being serious?”  I stammered.  My hopeful 45-minute wait just turned into a full 3 hours. . .

Red Hat Guy points to the top of my ticket. 

“You’re #127,” he said politely.

I suddenly felt myself having flashbacks to the DMV. 

It was as if someone had stuck a pin in me – I was totally deflated.  I was just thankful that Lake wasn’t old enough to completely grasp the nature of our mall trip; otherwise, he would’ve been pretty devastated, too.

Ok, then.  No Santa today.

Fast-forward 1 week. 

In an effort to make sure Lake’s Santa experience was successful the second time around, I found myself rushing to the mall a full hour before it officially opened for the day.  I hadn’t even had my morning cup of Joe.  And when I walked in, this is what I saw:

Did I just get transported to the Bon Jovi ticket-line circa 1989?  No joke, people must have started lining up while it was still dark outside!  The only thing that would cause this kind of parental insanity is if this guy were the actual Santa Clause, right?!?

One hour later, Red Hat Guy handed me my new ticket.  Seventeen.  I was told to return to the mall and be in line by 11:15.  Two hours later, Mark, Lake and I arrive for the big event.  Red Hat Guy should have actually said 12:15, because that’s when Santa (by the way, he was not the actual Santa Clause) was finally ready for Lake to take a seat on his infamous lap.

This was the result.

Three separate trips to the mall, 2 attempts to see Santa, 3 hours of total wait-time and this was how it ended.   Priceless!

At least when we got home, Lake and I both took a well-deserved afternoon nap.

Merry Christmas!

Whoa, whoa, whoa Miss Lippy. . .

Do you ever wonder if you could’ve been a rock star?

Ok, maybe not a rock star, but just something different from what you have become.  You know, if you would have grown up in a different city, attended a different college or been exposed to just one more sport?

Sometimes I do.  Wonder, I mean.

It’s not that my parents didn’t let me try out a million different things.  In fact, I would like to publicly thank my Mom and Dad for the thousands of dollars spent on piano, swimming, tennis and dancing lessons, in addition to providing me with all the sporting gear needed for basketball, track and cheerleading over my adolescent years.  But sometimes I wonder. . .if I had been given ice skating lessons, could I have been the next Kristi Yamaguchi?

So fast forward and I am now a 31-year-old mom.  No real exceptional talents, just a normal parent hoping to expose my child to just the right thing to give him some self-confidence. 

So at the ripe old age of 18 months, cue the first exposure.

Art class.

My grandfather was an insanely talented artist (that gene was unfortunately not passed on to his youngest grandchild) and Mark has some pretty amazing artistic skills himself, so it seemed to be a good fit for Lakes first “classroom” activity.

I might have been wrong.

Over the course of this 10-week art class, the sequence of events typically unfolded like this:

• Arrival.

• A Miss Lippy-esque teacher gives directions for each project to be completed for the day.  Meanwhile, Lake has meltdown #1 because he’s itching to get into the paint sitting on each of the tables and I’m desperately trying to sit him quietly in my lap like all the other parents have successfully done.

• Start our projects. Lake eats blue paint.

• Meltdown #2 when Lake realizes he has paint all over his hands.

• Lake spends 5 minutes splashing his hands in a tub of soap and water.  Dry.  Repeat.

• Easel time.  Lake finally starts enjoying himself as he moves from easel to easel painting on every piece of paper he can find, regardless of if another child is already painting there.

• Meltdown #3 occurs as “Miss Lippy” calls us over for music time. His hands need washed.  Again.

• And then, this happens.

Seems I inadvertently exposed him to just the right thing.  Next up:  music class.  Maybe he will be a rock star after all.