My daughter is afraid of Santa Claus. Curious. But afraid. We’ve run into him a few times this season so far, and each time she likes to keep her distance. She wants to SEE him, but she DOES NOT want to talk to him or sit on his lap.
Annabelle was a mere five months old for her first Christmas. When we took her to see Santa, Mike placed her in his arms, all while keeping her facing out towards a waving and smiling me. She never even knew she had been passed off to a strange man with a beard. She just happily cooed and smiled at mama.
The next year she was a wise 17 months old, and handing her off to a stranger, no matter how jolly he appeared to be, was simply not going to happen. She was in and out of his arms in the blink of an eye…or the flash of a camera….resulting in this:
We have both of these pictures framed and displayed as decorations. Annabelle walks by them and tells me, “This is baby Annabelle with Santa when I was happy. And this is Annabelle with Santa when I was sad.” Oh by gosh, by golly…
I have little hope for this year. She’s way too clever and quick now, I doubt we’ll even manage to get her on his lap…even for a pouting picture. When we were in the mall earlier this week, I asked her if she wanted to see Santa Claus. She thought about it for a moment and then replied, “No, thank you, mommy. No, thank you.”
No one has ever needed therapy from a traumatic visit to Santa before…right?