|
This is the time of year that always reminds me why I don't have kids. I grip onto little Christian's tiny hand and part the crowd, maneuvering us through whilst trying to keep up with my sister Nancy, whose two lovely five and six year-old girls, Lucy & Marissa, hanging off each of her arms.
"Mommy! Mommy!" they wail enthusiastically, "We want to go see Santa!"
Oh no, I think miserably. I did NOT sign up for this. Nancy catches my eye and I scowl at her, but she shrugs helplessly.
"Pushover," I mutter under my breath, hauling Christian to the Christmas display at the far end of the mall.
And so this is how I came to be standing in queue between a hundred of the most obnoxious brats in town, along with their hysterical parents trying to calm them down while dissolving some Ritalin into apple juice.
"This is NOT the relaxing shopping spree you promised over the phone," I gripe to Nancy, noticing some nearby fathers checking out the pair of us, probably wondering which of us mothered these three kids, not for the first time. Nancy is three years older than me but still has the same svelte hourglass shape as me, despite her three pregnancies (much to the chagrin of her other mother friends). Both of us have healthy cleavage, blue eyes and wavy brown hair (she cut hers for the kids, but mine falls down my back).
"Quit whining," Nancy shushes me as though I am one of her kids. "We do this every year."
"I'm not usually part of that "we"," I counter, making dramatic quotations in midair. Nancy rolls her eyes maturely.
"Well, Brian's at work. If you want, on the way back we can stop by that bakery you like," Nancy bribes me, pulling a sticky candy cane from Lucy's hair.
"Hmmmph," I sulk, already tasting the delicious pastry cream bursting its sugary goodness on my tongue. Nancy succeeds in pacifying me so instead I turn to people-watching: the activity everyone engages in but never admit to.
All around me, I notice the frantic faces, their expressions of quiet panic, their constant glancing at the time and their PDAs, trying to get work done while handling their kids, every busy, trying to do it all. I spy a single, haggard-looking mother with her hyperactive son bouncing around; another father flying solo with his little daughter in hand, gazing wistfully at the mothers around him. The exchange of smiles and feigned enthusiasm of two acquaintances when bumping into each other for the first time "since high school!" Everywhere, a sea of colorful shopping bags, strapped to baby strollers or resting at the adults' feet.
I feel like someone is staring at me and try to follow their gaze, looking to all the men around me, catching a few of them trying inconspicuously to feed their roving eyes by glancing at Nancy and I. But the heated gaze is still on me. I glance around, almost starting to feel paranoid, when I find the source in a most unexpected place. A tall, lithe woman with stunning long black hair cascading over her shoulders, dressed in a red velvet dress with furry white trim on the collar and hem, winks at me beneath her thick black lashes when I catch her gaze. She's standing next to Santa Claus, her dress covering the tops of her white stockinged legs, wearing high-heeled black Mary Janes. Good God. She resembles a porn star-turned-philanthropist, helping kids on and off Santa's lap. I can see Santa's brief peeks at his helper's décolleté when he thinks the parents aren't watching.
Suddenly I am intrigued. A beautiful woman is completely undressing me with her eyes, yet here I am, trapped in line with my sister and her loud rugrats, surrounded by other bored adults and impatient kids...
|
