Fat Santa

On the drive in to school, the girls demand another non-fiction fiction story. (These are improvised stories that I sell as actually having happened.)

Julianna (7 years old): Tell us a non-fiction fiction story!

Isabella (she’s 5): Yay!

Me: What should I tell you about?

J (Coming up with a topic completely on her own): Tell us about the time you worked with Santa!

Me (stalling while I figure out a rough story arc. While bumper-to-bumper. Hey, did that guy just give me the finger? I digress.): Oh, yeah, with Santa… This is completely true. Everything I am about to tell you is true.

I: But I thought this was fiction.

Me: Well, it is non-fiction fiction.

I: So, you really worked with Santa.

Me (subtly changing my emphasis): Remember, this is non-fiction fiction. You be the judge.

The story begins:

Me: Remember the time I was abducted by space aliens.

J & I: Yes.

Me: Well, when they brought me back to earth, they didn’t know where I lived. So, they dropped me off on top of the world.

J: The North Pole!

Me: Yes, you’re right. Since I didn’t know where I was, I began to walk through the snow. In the distance, I saw a flashing red light.

I: It was Rudolph!

Me: Yes. Rudolph. I made my way through the haze, and found Mrs. Claus feeding the reindeer. “My, oh my!” she said. “You must be cold!”

I: Daddy, were you really cold?

Me: Um. North Pole… Yeah… Anyway, she took me to her house and gave me a warm bowl of soup.

J: Was it Miso Soup? I love Miso Soup!

Me: Chicken and rice… So, I tell her about the space aliens (that’s a whole other non-fiction fiction story…) When I’m done, she tells me, “My stars! My husband will help you.”

Isabella (excitedly): You got to meet Santa!?

At this point, I wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew with this story. We’ll be at school in about 3 minutes. And I haven’t even gotten to the meat of the story. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Me: So, Mrs. Claus takes me to the workshop. We walk through the door, and I see lots of very small people with hammers and screw drivers and drills…

J: The elves!

Me: Yes! That’s right! She leads me around a corner, and (dramatically): There. He. Is!

J & I: Santa!!

Me: Yes! I tell him my story, and he says, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

I: Does he really say that?

Me: Well, he did to me. To you, maybe not. To me, yes… So I tell him my story and how I have to get back to Los Angeles. And he says, “Well, there aren’t any planes or trains or automobiles,” (I couldn’t resist the reference. Look it up.) “…or busses or boats around here.” He pronounces: “You will fly with me on Christmas Eve!”

J: Christmas Eve?! On the sled?!

Me: Yeah, well… He calls it a sleigh. Don’t know what the difference is… Anyway… You can’t say “no” to Santa, even though it is only September, and when he says “you will fly with me,” who am I to argue?

I: You argued with Santa?

J: No, Daddy DIDN’T argue with him. That’s what he’s saying.

I: Yes, he did.

J: No, he did not!

Crap! Here’s our exit… Wrap it up! Wrap it up!

Me: Girls! Please! So, from September until Christmas Eve, I helped Santa. I was in charge of scheduling the elves. (If you are wondering, it’s a Union shop. Strictly enforced.) Finally, Christmas Eve arrives, and off we go into the night sky. We start in Asia.

J: Oooo! Japan?

Me: Yes! Then, Africa.

I: England?

Me: No, Honey. Please, I’m trying to finish my story.

Me: Finally, Santa drops me off at my house. And, as he flies away, he let’s out a mighty “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

As the teacher’s assistant approaches the car to let Julianna out, Isabella asks:

I: Daddy, Is Santa fat?

Me: Yes. Very fat.

I: Like you?

Me: Sweetie, I really am not that fat! Honestly, I’m not! Santa was much fatter than me!

I: Well… Maybe then, but now…?

(actual quote.)

———–

I guess I really should explicitly slap a copyright notice on this:
© 2012 by Darren Otero. All rights reserved.

M-O-U-S-E

Yeah, there are countless hours away from home. Days go by that I’m not around. But, sometimes, it’s cool when the old man works for one of the most iconic companies in the world. I mean, how many times does a five year old get to wander the Disney Studios and go wherever she wants?

My work schedule required that I take Isabella (the five-year-old) in to work for a couple of hours the other day. She actually got excited that she “had” to go to Daddy’s work.

With Grumpy, Doc and the Artist formerly known as Prince. Sorry, no. That's Dopey.

And, she actually planted a kiss on Mickey!

Turns out, Minnie does get a little jealous. We didn't stay long.

I set her up in an office and let her color and put a puzzle together and play on the computer. My office mates all told me how angelic, polite, and quiet she was. But, as a reader of Daddy/Daughter Fun Time, you know that is not generally the case… Um, you DO know that, right?

Maybe I should dish more dirt.

Gone Fishing

Me: Am I pretty?

The Girls: NOOO!

J (She’s 7): You’re handsome.

I (5): Yeah. Handsome.

I’m not fishing for compliments here. What I am fishing for is material that I can post on this here blog. And, I am not disappointed. But, I am a little disturbed. The girls have been comparing Angelina Ballerina and Dora the Explorer. They both agree that Angelina is pretty. Our scene continues…

J: Boys are handsome, and girls are pretty.

Me: What else can girls be?

J: Well, they can be Beautiful. And Attractive.

I: Yeah, and Gorgeous. Or a Supermodel.

J: And Bodacious.

Me: Really? Where did you hear that? Did the’80s call?

J: And Luscious. Oh! And Hot.

Me: Ok, you’re making me uncomfortable.

I: And Se-e-e-e-xyyyyyyyyyyy. Hahahahaha!

She pronounces each “e” for added effect. She also strings out the “y” with an ear-to-ear grin, and her eyes are just about popping out of her head. Remember, she’s all of FIVE years old.

I need to remind myself: Be careful the next time I decide to go fishing, I may not like what I catch.

It’s Not Confectioner’s Sugar

Continuing the History thread by Julianna (the seven-year-old) from a few days ago:

J: Daddy, why did lawyers used to wear white wigs?

Me: Well, back in George Washington’s time, that was part of the uniform. It was tradition. Powdered wigs.

J: Wigs? What made them white? Was it Baking Soda?

Me: I don’t think so.

J: ‘Cause if it was, then it would help their bug bites not itch so much… I should know.

Me: Yes, you would. (As an aside: Julianna was eaten alive by mosquitoes during our recent camping trip. Baking soda actually helps… Just WAIT ’til I blog about that!)

Me (continuing): No, Honey. I don’t think it was baking soda in their wigs.

J: And, Daddy. If Washington was still alive today, he wouldn’t be our President, right?

Me: No. Term limits. Or, frailty. If nothing else. But, probably term limits.

J: I don’t know what that means. But, he could tell us King George’s last name.

Me: I don’t think George had a last name.

J: Yes, he had to. Everyone has a last name.

Me: You mean, “The Third?”

J: Yes! That’s it! A number!

Me: Uh, that really wasn’t his last name.

J: But, it ends in “The Third.” You told me that “Last” and “End” mean the same thing. George. The. Third.

Windsor? Tudor? Hanover? I really have no comeback. (British friends, help me out here.)

Me: I guess so, Honey.

You know, you can actually Wikipedia “George the Third” and find the right Dude. So, I guess “III” is a valid last name.

I have been schooled.

Birthday Boy

It’s a crazy, hectic day today. But, I had to share this…

The girls climb into bed with me and sing “Happy Birthday.” Lots of smiles and laughter.

But, I have to get the day going.

Me: What do you want for breakfast?

Isabella (she’s 5): I want to eat Daddy!

Julianna (7): Yay! Daddycakes!

Me: Well… I may not be nearly as nutritious as I look.

J: I know… You have a LOT of fat.

Me: Thanks for that.

Iz: Yeah. And your teeth are yellow.

Me: What does that have to do with anything?

(She unleashes her devilish smile…)

Iz: And your breath is so stinky. And your armpits, too. Hahahahahahahahaha!

Best. Birthday. Ever! And it’s barely 7am.