My son was not quite four years old, the perfect age for visiting Santa at the local mall. We planned the trip to coincide with the arrival of family a few weeks before Christmas. My mother-in-law decked out my son in his best outfit, had his hair cut and made him promise to smile no matter what Santa told him. My son was so eager to visit with Santa, talk to the elves, hear about his presents and receive a candy cane that he would have promised anything if he could only go that instant.
The drive to the mall was punctuated with a whiny, squirmy boy being placated by grandma with a sippy cup full of Koolaid. By the time we arrived the adults among us were tense and irritable with fake holiday smiles upon our faces, we could see the Santa line from the parking lot and knew we had the horrors of several hours to wait in line. My son yanked and tugged us toward the doors, unaware of the problem. My husband and father-in-law growled something about finding nourishment in the food court to tide us over during the wait, abandoning my son, his grandmother and me to the rigors of waiting in line. Anyone who has ever stood in line with a three-year-old understands the joy of this situation.
We found the end of the line and I leaned down, trying to explain to my son that he couldn’t run up to the front and actually see Santa yet because all of these strangers were first. My son isn’t terribly pleased when anyone is more special than he is and seeing Santa first was his idea of being more special. He started to scowl and tried to yank me forward three or four times. Recognizing his strategy wasn’t working he went to plan B, he loudly proclaimed that he had to pee. As the mother of a three-year-old you have two choices. You can think he is making it up and stand there and listen to screaming and possible pants full of pee or you can locate the closest bathroom and endure the adventure of exploring strange mall bathrooms with children. I opted for the bathroom as I’m sure my son knew I would.
We arrived at the narrow hall sandwiched between two stores. I’d forgotten that my son felt he was too old to be accompanied into the women’s bathroom. With no signs of my husband or grandfather this meant he had to enter the men’s room alone. I told him I would keep the door cracked open so I could hear him. He shrugged me off and raced into the bathroom with me standing holding the door half open. I heard him count the inside doors, one of his favorite things to do. Then I heard him knocking on the doors. He liked to knock to see if anyone was inside the toilet room, expecting a proper person to say “hello”.
The next thing I hear is a knock followed by, “SANTA!” followed by an uncertain grunt. I stuck my head around the door at the exact moment my son burst out of the door yelling, “Santa POOPS! Santa POOPS! I saw Santa POOPING!” I let the door drift closed.
My son chortled up at me, “Mommy, Mommy — Santa is a POOPY! He was right there on the toilet with his pants down and everything. Mommy did you know Santa POOPS? Do the poops go to the North Pole? Why does Santa POOP at the Mall?”
I opened my mouth and then shut my mouth. I’m sure I did this at least four times before, to my increased sense of the absurd, Santa in all his glory emerged from the bathroom. He came to a screeching halt.
My son declared, “Santa POOPS!”
I looked helplessly at Santa. He looked helplessly at me and then he leaned down toward my son and said, “It’s a Santa secret!” Santa brought his white-gloved finger to his mouth making the “Shhhh” sound.
My son’s eyes widened in delight. He was the proud owner of a Santa secret.