I’ve just turned 4, as I sneak a peek at our tree, already suspecting Santa is really my mother, because why else would she be putting stuff under it in her nightgown.
I may be short, but I’m not stupid.
Either that or she’s kissing a coupla elves under that thing hanging from the ceiling she made my dad put up, or maybe even the fat man himself.
We all know how she loves a man in uniform.
Of course I’m supposed to be in bed with sugar plums dancing in my head, not spying, but I want to make sure nobody swipes the cookies I left since I’m told, over and over, that Santa, from carrying that sack, works up a mighty big appetite.
My mom, I think, could do a little better snack wise. When I ask, why just Oreos and not a little Spaghetti Marinara, she says, Santa’s on a diet, since last year it was hard for him to zip up his suit.
Now how would she know that if she wasn’t, you know, having a secret Christmas canoodle?
After skedaddling back to bed, I ask Fluffy, my cat, what she thinks. She pats me with her paw and gives me one of those reassuring, purring smiles that tells me to relax, and stop worrying.
The next morning, when I run into the living room and see Patti Playpal next to a new pair of Keds, I decide Fluff, as usual, was right.
I then check on the cookies that are all gone, and look at my mother wearing her L.L. Bean reindeer apron and think, well, if she ate them instead of Santa, I guess that’s okay. After all, his helpers, no matter who they are, get hungry too.
I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves.
My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks.