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Scapegoat Santa
by Kellie Head
Move over Lee Majors, there's a new
Fall Guy in town and he answers to the name of Claus, Santa Claus. He won't
be taking the plunge from a 40-story skyscraper on a Hollywood stunt set.
Instead, he'll be taking the rap for all the high-tech, high-priced, high-anxiety
"gotta-haves" on my kids' Christmas list--the things I didn't, wouldn't,
couldn't get for them.
My plan to blame Santa for the material misfortune of my children this Christmas
is likely the most diabolically ingenious scheme my frazzled mommy brain
has ever conceived. Since they only see him once a year, I can reasonably
explain how their toy order fell wayside to the obvious health demands of
a 2000-year-old, over-grown elf, with a fetish for sugar cookies and milk.
His skyrocketing triglyceride levels alone make him the perfect candidate
for a massive coronary--leaving the Grinch, a much leaner specimen, free
to take over the Christmas Eve rounds.
The same kids, who I spent the better part of the year teaching to be socially
responsible citizens, buckle under the heat of the Christmas lights and the
mind-numbing melody of Dogs Singing Jingle Bells. Suddenly, and without notice,
they are willing to sell Grandma's prosthetic leg, in hopes of bribing Santa
into bringing them the new Dyno-Drencher LTD, with laser scope accuracy and
detachable silencer.
When I was a child, my mother would hand us the Christmas edition of the
Sears catalog and a black marker. We'd spend hours poring through each and
every page, hunting for the perfect toys for our Christmas list. We changed
out minds dozens of times, crossed out hasty choices, triple circled our
well carefully considered revisions and eventually crossed those out, too.
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About the Author:
Kellie resides in central Illinois, is married and is the mother of six children.
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