Mini Santa
Today my son, It still feels odd to say it, but it is at least oddly comforting, had a photo session with Santa Claus. For the occasion he wore a red suit with white fur trim. Yes it was a Santa Suit, though on my diminutive little man it really made him look more like a munchkin decked out for an office Holiday party. He even had the office drunkards ruddy nose and flushed cheeks. For those of you who have offices, and for those offices that have Christmas parties, and for those Christmas parties with that guy you know what I mean. I assure you while he has been hitting the bottle heavily as of late the contents are only milk, that glorious libation which is like Soma too the Hindoo; sacred, nourishing, dream inducing yummy goodness. There are times I envy the boy and his ability to find such sublime pleasure in something so simple as sucking milk from a rubber teet. I wonder if I knew such pleasure in my own infancy and at what juncture in my life I thought it would be a good idea to go in search of more complex fare. Ah well, such is wisdom and folly.
Anyway, as I was saying my son met the jolly old elf today. Not the real elf mind you, who is no doubt far to busy with last minute preparations for the big show. But one of those erstwhile imposters. Not that impostering (is that a word?) is a bad thing. There is something ritualistic about it, something reminiscent of the Masked revelry of Europe or the whirling dances of the Plains tribes, the fearsome totems of the Pacific North West and the hip swaying, blue suede shoe wearing, Hunk-a-hunk-a Burning love Elvi that crop up in Las Vegas and various and sundry dinner theaters in places like Paramus, NJ. Each performing an act of worship by donning a false face and with it an altered perception of the self. So to the mall Santa. And you never know, the real deal just might pop up from time to time, or maybe like the sacred dances the real deal is present behind the mask, if you believe and trust me Oliver, that is my son for those who have not had the pleasure of his acquaintance yet is filled with three things; poop, total trust in his mommy and daddy, and belief in things we as adults find to difficult to believe. It is easy to believe when your vocabulary of the real is so limited. The difficulty in belief only comes later, but increasingly far to soon. Not so my Oliver. he wore his little Santa suit and met the fat man with wide eyed and sleepy eyed wonderment. I think that I shall enjoy the holiday season with my little man. Heck, I might even pass on a few of those amazing lies of the holiday I grew up on. What is a Christmas lie if not a truth placed before hope.