The Lexingtonienne


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Yesterday we took Eleanora for her annual meeting with You-Know-Who. They had important business to discuss, such as naughtiness versus niceness, favorite holiday songs, and Eleanora’s Christmas requests.

Since we must all look our best for these essential encounters, I put her in her Christmas dress (monogrammed by the lovely Pat Flanagan and pressed by Eleanora’s Shae-Shae), and off to the mall we went.

I was nervous. Not that she would cry. As you know, my favorite Santa photos feature a child screaming in terror. Tears wouldn’t ruin my day. What I was afraid of was that she wouldn’t sit in his lap at all, that she would squirm away. A photo of Santa with a pink blur is useless to me. So we spent the car ride discussing how super nice Santa Claus is and how much fun it is to sit in his lap.

When we arrived at the mall’s Santa station, Eleanora refused to look at him. She purposely looked in any direction but his. It wasn’t like, “Agghhh! He’s terrifying! Get him away from me!” No no. It was more like, “Santa? Santa who? I don’t see any Santa.”

This Santa was shrewd, y’all, and he had a game plan. (He was the same one from last year, who sang to Eleanora in Italian. Eleanora may not be sure about him, but he has definitely won me over.) First, he walked away altogether, so that Eleanora could sit in his chair by herself. Then the three of us (Santa, Eleanora, and I) all sat for a photo. Finally, the two of them sat together — mano a mano.



As we walked away, Santa photo in hand, this carol echoed through my mind in jubilant chorus…


Repeat the sounding joy,

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