Little Sunshine still believes in Santa. Number One Son puts on a good act, but I think he is doing so just to let us have a little more fun.
Emma was highly concerned about the lack of appearance of our Elf, Fideo. Every morning the first week of December she searched the house looking for the little trouble-maker, but to no avail. Finally, her father remembered and managed find him and set him out. But then he didn't move for a couple days and she began to ask what was wrong with him. We completely fail as parents. So, I set him up one morning wrapped in a blanket next to a big bottle of Ibuprofen and a thermometer. I felt pretty good about my recover, and Emma was partially relieved and partially concerned about Fideo's health.
The next day, Fideo and his new-found frog friend got into the candy bowl. So, he is obviously on the mend.
When we recently told her we would take her to see Santa at the mall, she told us, "THAT is not the real Santa. That is just some fat hobo. I want to see the real Santa."
First, I am not sure why she thinks only hobos are hired to be the mall Santa. Second, how does she know about hobos?
So, we nix the mall Santa trip.
We decided to go to the National Ranching Heritage Center event, Candlelight at the Ranch. We informed Emma that Santa would be there. Our reasoning was that this is not a mall, therefore, she will be more inclined to believe it is the real Santa.
Our reasoning was faulty.
She informed us that she would be pulling Santa's beard to see if he was real or just a fat hobo. I whispered harshly in her ear, "You better NOT pull his beard, or I will take all of your gifts back to the store." She gave me her highly skeptical, stubborn look that I am certain she inherited from her father and crossed her arms. "We'll see," she said. "We'd better not see," I replied. Given the western environment of our current surroundings, I am sure the fellow guests at the ranch got a good chuckle from the OK Corral-like standoff that me and my mini-me were having next to the hitching post.
We get in line at the barn to see Santa, whereupon Emma loudly announced to me, "THAT is not Santa! He's way too skinny. It's just a SKINNY HOBO." You are welcome fellow-parents whose kids were actually having a good time and believing they were seeing the jolly old man up until that point.
I recognize that telling your kid to "SHUT UP!" is generally frowned upon, but for any of you reading this who find yourself looking down upon me for doing so, and who have much less strong-willed children than I do, I am happy for you having children who do not drive you to the brink of public-strangulation.
She looked up at me defiantly and said, "Fine! I'll sit on his lap and tell him what I want. But you had better call the real Santa and let him know, too!" This sounded reasonable at this point, so I agreed.
We spent the rest of the evening touring the grounds and seeing how Christmas was celebrated at cowboy camps, ranch houses, farm dugouts, etc. We worked up a hunger and decided we'd go for dinner, and while the rest of this story has nothing to do with Christmas, it made us laugh, so I am sharing it.
We stopped at a restaurant that was popular with our local law enforcement. We know this because there were several police vehicles parked out front. Either it was popular, or we were walking into a bad situation. Fortunately, it was the prior.
We eat a lovely meal and get ready to leave. As we exit the restaurant, Emma turns to me, holds up a packet of crackers she had taken from the table and says, "I just stole this from the table. Man, it feels good to be a Gangsta!"
I look at her father and calmly asked, "Just what do you let her listen to in your truck?" He proclaimed his innocence, but the giggling children trying to crawl into my car does not support his claim. I looked around to see if any of the officers were still around, as I thought perhaps an impromptu "scared straight" program was needed, but they had all left the scene.
Someone needs to inform my precious daughter that there ain't no "gangsta" that stands a chance with an exhausted, ticked-off, old cowgirl. But, I do secretly admire her moxie.
So, there you have it, hug a fat hobo, embrace a gangsta, and have a Happy Holiday!
Merry Christmas from West Texas Mama, El Hubbo, Number One Son, and Little Sunshine!
Emma was highly concerned about the lack of appearance of our Elf, Fideo. Every morning the first week of December she searched the house looking for the little trouble-maker, but to no avail. Finally, her father remembered and managed find him and set him out. But then he didn't move for a couple days and she began to ask what was wrong with him. We completely fail as parents. So, I set him up one morning wrapped in a blanket next to a big bottle of Ibuprofen and a thermometer. I felt pretty good about my recover, and Emma was partially relieved and partially concerned about Fideo's health.
The next day, Fideo and his new-found frog friend got into the candy bowl. So, he is obviously on the mend.
When we recently told her we would take her to see Santa at the mall, she told us, "THAT is not the real Santa. That is just some fat hobo. I want to see the real Santa."
First, I am not sure why she thinks only hobos are hired to be the mall Santa. Second, how does she know about hobos?
So, we nix the mall Santa trip.
We decided to go to the National Ranching Heritage Center event, Candlelight at the Ranch. We informed Emma that Santa would be there. Our reasoning was that this is not a mall, therefore, she will be more inclined to believe it is the real Santa.
Our reasoning was faulty.
She informed us that she would be pulling Santa's beard to see if he was real or just a fat hobo. I whispered harshly in her ear, "You better NOT pull his beard, or I will take all of your gifts back to the store." She gave me her highly skeptical, stubborn look that I am certain she inherited from her father and crossed her arms. "We'll see," she said. "We'd better not see," I replied. Given the western environment of our current surroundings, I am sure the fellow guests at the ranch got a good chuckle from the OK Corral-like standoff that me and my mini-me were having next to the hitching post.
We get in line at the barn to see Santa, whereupon Emma loudly announced to me, "THAT is not Santa! He's way too skinny. It's just a SKINNY HOBO." You are welcome fellow-parents whose kids were actually having a good time and believing they were seeing the jolly old man up until that point.
I recognize that telling your kid to "SHUT UP!" is generally frowned upon, but for any of you reading this who find yourself looking down upon me for doing so, and who have much less strong-willed children than I do, I am happy for you having children who do not drive you to the brink of public-strangulation.
She looked up at me defiantly and said, "Fine! I'll sit on his lap and tell him what I want. But you had better call the real Santa and let him know, too!" This sounded reasonable at this point, so I agreed.
We spent the rest of the evening touring the grounds and seeing how Christmas was celebrated at cowboy camps, ranch houses, farm dugouts, etc. We worked up a hunger and decided we'd go for dinner, and while the rest of this story has nothing to do with Christmas, it made us laugh, so I am sharing it.
We stopped at a restaurant that was popular with our local law enforcement. We know this because there were several police vehicles parked out front. Either it was popular, or we were walking into a bad situation. Fortunately, it was the prior.
We eat a lovely meal and get ready to leave. As we exit the restaurant, Emma turns to me, holds up a packet of crackers she had taken from the table and says, "I just stole this from the table. Man, it feels good to be a Gangsta!"
I look at her father and calmly asked, "Just what do you let her listen to in your truck?" He proclaimed his innocence, but the giggling children trying to crawl into my car does not support his claim. I looked around to see if any of the officers were still around, as I thought perhaps an impromptu "scared straight" program was needed, but they had all left the scene.
Someone needs to inform my precious daughter that there ain't no "gangsta" that stands a chance with an exhausted, ticked-off, old cowgirl. But, I do secretly admire her moxie.
So, there you have it, hug a fat hobo, embrace a gangsta, and have a Happy Holiday!
Merry Christmas from West Texas Mama, El Hubbo, Number One Son, and Little Sunshine!
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