Dear Santa ...

Tis the season ...
Screaming, crying, clinging to your mother or breaking free and making a run for it. Worse than any slasher movie, roller coaster or natural disaster ever imagined. The dreaded SANTA VISIT!

Our last picture with Santa was two years ago. An adorable picture of my kids ... and their tonsils. Last year we were all big talk, until we were next in line. Then it just fell apart. I was parked in what seemed like the next town. It must have taken hours to drag the traumatized children out of the mall. I am sure someone along the way considered calling CPS on me ... or offering a stiff drink.

I was prepared this year. Reinforcements were recruited, bribes were given and an escape route was planned in hopes of avoiding a scene when the inevitable happened. Screaming and crying I was prepared for, but that was not what I was given ...

As we were next in line, it went something like this:
Little Man: "My booty's stretching."
Me: "What, I didn't hear you?"
Little Man: "My booty's stretching. I need go poo poo!"
Me: "You are going to have to wait!"
Little Man: "But, my booty's stretching!" *now sitting in the floor, holding his bottom with both hands*
"I NEED TO POO POO!" *and now the entire mall knows*

Um, uh ...
You sure you don't want to just throw a big screaming fit?