208 - Santa


Stepping onto the porch with your tablet and a mug of coffee that reads Best Dad in the Entire House, you prepare for the ordeal that your morning routine has become. You are wearing your red bathrobe with billowing white cotton trim, another “cute” Christmas present from your wife. It has transformed your once peaceful ritual of sipping coffee and reading on your front stoop into an exhausting hassle.

You have been sitting for less than two minutes when the first one approaches. He stands about three feet tall, with beady brown eyes that sit just under platinum blonde hair. A bright yellow booger hangs loosely from his right nostril. Without so much as a hello, the child climbs into your lap, gripping the trim of your bathrobe for balance.

You hold your coffee mug out to the side to avoid spilling hot coffee onto the child as he settles into his perch on your right leg. He stares up at you with wanting eyes.

You return his stare with a frown and a burning gaze.

“I want a fire truck,” he says.

“I’ll see what I can do kid.”

As he climbs off you, the child notices the booger in his nose and pulls it out. He looks right and left, searching for a place to stash his prey, and settles on the tail of your bathrobe. He descends the stairs of your porch and walks down the street.

Your wife opens the front door, holding something behind her back. She stops directly in front of you and reveals her secret, a red knit cap with a white bobble on top. She places it on your head and walks away.

“I hate you,” you call after her.

“That’s no way to talk to Mrs. Claus,” she replies.