Like many kids, I obsessed over my Santa list every year even though the whole story never really added up. I mean, how could a fat guy in a red suit hit every house in the world in a matter of hours? Kids today need not doubt; they have living proof via Norad, which gives a play-by-play of Santa’s tracks.
My parents could also never provide me with a convincing answer as to why he magically appeared at every mall during the season (and always at the same time) or why he couldn’t remember what he brought me the year prior. Yes, I tested him and he always flunked. I couldn’t really hold it against him though, because he always overlooked those years when I ranked as more naughty than nice.
Despite being unable to logically justify his existence, I still believed and would write him long gluttonous letters detailing why I (not my brother) needed that Grease 8-track. I never mailed the letters. I couldn’t. I didn’t have an address. Had I only known I could send my hallowed list to the North Pole, Alaska 99705. Or that there is also an equal-opportunity Santa in Canada, who can be reached at the postal code HOH OHO. Ingenious, I know.
One of the highlights of our sleepless weekend was hitting the North Pole of the lower 48 in Cascade, CO. There we found a child’s wonderland: a Christmas-themed amusement park, complete with The Man in Red, whimsical toy shops, festive rides, entertaining shows and yummy food.
We extensively prepped The Hurricane prior to her Santa encounter. I didn’t want to relate some woosy story about how she freaked out when she saw him but she I had no reason to worry. Like a kid on a mission, she plopped herself down on his lap, recited her list as if her life depended on it, posed obligingly for a photo and jumped down.
She meant business when it came to the rides as well. That fearless little thing not only hit the candy cane slide and the Christmas tree ride, but she also went on every adult ride that she qualified for, some of which even her father wouldn’t go on. We had to grab Bode to accompany her in those instances. Isn’t that what baby brothers are for?
We have long suspected Haddie is a tomboy due to her obsession with sports, trains and the fact that she uses her dolls as speed bumps with her stroller. She has a few girly interests such as make-up and clothes but we figured the test would be when we entered the girl’s toys shop and then the boy’s.
Sure enough, she grew quickly bored in the former but as soon as we entered the latter, she screeched “COOOOL!” and raced over to a huge Thomas the Train track. I won’t go into our sordid history with this evil train but just know our last encounter with him at Toys R Us resulted in drawing her father’s blood as he attempted to drag her away kicking and screaming. Oh, and then she had to be accompanied out of the store with a balloon by the manager. I wonder if this means she’s been banned?
When it came time to leave the toy shop, I stealthily made my way towards the door leaving Jamie in charge. This time was no different. Again, she screamed, kicked and went for his jugular. He eventually dragged her out of there, leaving us incredulous because we’ve never seen her react that way over any toy.
Rest assured, this very train track was at the top of her Santa list. And because she’s my obsessive daughter and recites this list in her sleep, I think I even saw her slip him a $20….
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 