This is a little story I wasn't expecting to finish, but here it is. A little late, but hope you enjoy! xox

Happy 2018!

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Every year, there's that first turn from fall to winter. When pumpkin everything and hayrides and turkeys made out of handprints on paper plates, make way for gingerbread and candy canes and sleigh rides on freshly fallen snow. But it's not the ringing of bells or the first carols sung—or even that demonic shelf elf I have to hide all over the house—that says Christmas is nigh. No, it's the moment little hands grab markers and write letters on Dad's office stationery to an old bearded man north of civilization, who wears a red fur suit, enslaves an entire race of little people to make his toys (without real pay or benefits, but probably housing and cocoa) and makes reindeer fly his fat ass all over the world to deliver them.

And we're meeting him today.

"Christian, please don't antagonize Santa this year," Ana whispers up to me as we stand in line with all four children at, of all ungodly places, the mall.

It's a higher end shopping plaza with decent decorations and, from what I can see up ahead, a Santa who doesn't need padding and is jolly enough that only half the kids come away crying like they've witnessed a murder.

But it's still a mall.

"I never antagonize Santa," I say and she gives me a look. "What? He was completely out of line last year." Imagine him telling my daughter she couldn't have something.

"What about the year before that?" Ana asks as we watch Phoebe and Teddy chase each other around, singing about how Batman smells and their teacher is laying eggs to the tune of Jingle Bells that's playing on loop over the sound system. It's their perineal favorite and my perennial headache.

"He had a real beard. He was obviously a pedophile," I say. No one grows something out that long unless he's deviantly planning for children to sit on his lap all year and pull it.

Ana rolls her eyes as she tends to a fussy Olly in the double stroller. Archie is smiling at his big sister in the front seat, as she's stopped her singing, and is now rolling his hair around and around her finger.

"What are you doing?" I ask Phoebe.

"I'm making Carrot's strawberry patches curl up for the picture," she says. His strawberry patches being his ginger locks. I've tried to dissuade her from calling her red headed brothers Berry and Carrot, but so far it isn't working, and I think the nicknames may stick for life.

This is the twins first Christmas, I marvel, as I look down at their little faces. I want to make it perfect for them—for all my children. But there's something about first Christmases. Everyone says you can't remember them, so they don't really matter, but I highly disagree. It's that celebration when you're small that seeps into your being. It sets you forth on the journey to who you're going to be and how you're going to believe. Whether you'll see the world as a happy place, where dreams can be reality, or one filled with disappointment. It's when you start to believe that miracles can come true. Or that they don't. I want their first memories of the happiest time of year to be magical. I want them to always believe. 

But I don't think the magic starts outside the food court at the Westside Pavilion.

"Why do we have to wait in this line?" I ask Ana as a couple hundred kids around me scream and sing and basically ruin my life. "I could have arranged for us to get straight to the front." Or better yet, out the back. I could have Taylor don a beard. He'd be a good Santa. Sure, he's not jolly, he looks like a marginally groomed gorilla and he can't carry a tune to a Christmas carol to save his life, but he knows where you are at all times, what you want and pops out mysteriously in the night to deliver things.

"We're teaching the kids that to have something special takes patience and effort," Ana says, rocking little Olly.

"Why are we teaching them that?" I ask.

This sloppy kid in front of me, wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of Santa in sunglasses that says: I Do It For The Ho's, sneezes into his sleeve. And I don't mean a cute little achoo. No, this is the kind of sneeze where the snot stretches and slides onto the red cotton. In slow terrorizing motion. And then once you think it's done, he takes another wipe. It's like a snot filled trilogy.

Oh god.

I immediately grab the hand sanitizer from the baby bag and squirt it in the kids' palms.

"Dad, Fritzy says Santa comes twice at his mom's house," Teddy tells me as he squishes the antibacterial blob between his fingers.

"So does the cable guy," I mutter and Ana nudges me to stop. "Tell Fritzy that Santa is a close personal friend of mine. He comes double that to our house." I squirt some sanitizer in Ana's hands, too, before giving my own a rub down. No one questions why I'm doing this, as it's a regular occurrence. I'm like the unpaid ad man for Purrell.

It's so hot in this mall, I have to pull at my collar. I guess they're not worried about their heating bill. Of course, I am wearing a full wool bright green double breasted suit with notable Christmas items embroidered throughout—and the matching puppies in Santa hats tie. Why, some may ask? Because my daughter drew up the design and said it would be perfect to meet Santa Claus and take the family picture in. I sent it to Versace and here we go. The bells of Saint Mary's are ringing off my sleeves. Literally.

The whole family is matching today—all three boys in Christmas check vests and bow ties; Phoebe and Ana in English red coats; but it's Dad that looks the most festively demonstrative. I've garnered looks all day, and probably a few paparazzi photo grabs, but I don't care what people think. Phoebe loves it, so I'm happy. Fuck the haters.

"How does Santa visit everyone all over the world to sit on his lap all at once?" Teddy asks as he chomps down on this reindeer chow that Gail made. It's cereal, powdered sugar and a ton of chocolate all shaken up in a plastic ziplock bag. It's basically rocket fuel for hyperactivity.

"Well, he has magical powers," I say. "And his reindeer fly him around."

"Like Charlie Tango?" he asks.

"Yes, like that, but different aerodynamics."

"How come the reindeers aren't here?" Phoebe asks.

"Well, because they're in the barn."

"Where's the barn?"

"At the North Pole."

"But they have to fly him 'round." She scratches her head. "How do they get back here to get him to take him to the other malls all over the world in time?"

"They fly very fast," I say.

Speaking of flying fast, I'm watching Teddy's jaws around that reindeer chow. And he's got powdered sugar all over his pants. It's like he got caught in the clap of two erasers.

"Let's save some for later," I say as I take the bag from him, with some protest, and throw it in the baby bag. I then pull out some wipes to clean him down. 

"How come I can't eat anymore?" he asks as I clean him off.

"Because I don't want you so fueled up you'll launch to space," I say.

"But that would be so cool!" he says.

Suddenly, there's a swell of cheering coming from the crowd. They've seen something—or rather someone. I first think it's Santa Claus, but he's still up ahead.

"Dad, look, it's Ginger Jack!" Teddy says, pointing excitedly in the distance.

"Ginger Jack!" Phoebe squeals. "I can't believe I ever lived so long to see him in real life."

"Ginger Jack?" I ask, standing again, trying to see what they're looking at.

It's this guy in a rather poorly constructed gingerbread man costume who keeps hopping up and down the aisles, asking people if they're excited, and throwing packaged gingerbread cookies at them. He's so amped up about everything, it's like a lightning rod is using his asshole as a garage. I want to motion to Taylor, who is diligently guarding us by the ropes, to accost him if he throws anything this way, but the kids seem to love this weirdo.

"Who is that?" I ask Ana. And why don't I know about him? I know all the kids' favorite characters. Ask me to sing Frozen and I'll do it forwards, backwards and without syllables.

"He does commercials for Daggman's Department Store during their afternoon cartoons," Ana says. "Before you get home from work. He's quite the local celebrity." She giggles, enjoying the kids' excitement. Why, even the babies are bouncing for this loony toons in a cookie getup.

Of course, we're right outside of Daggman's. I should've recognized the canine perfume aisle and cheap polyester. I know Henry Daggman. What a loser. Of course his two bit department store would try to rape the public with a half cracked cookie.

"What time is it kids?" Ginger Jack yells out.

"Cookie time!" they all respond and throw their arms out to emulate this dance number he's doing. I know it's supposed to be a gingerbread man who has no knees or elbows to bend, but it looks more like a kid in a triple thick snowsuit that can't move his limbs, trying to get to the bathroom before he pisses himself.

They watch this everyday after school?

"He's going away!" Phoebe says as he waves his big iced felt paw, high-fiving random kids on his retreat.

"Oh, he'll be back, trust me," I say. If only to make my life miserable.

"I want an autograph," Teddy says.

"Me, too!" Phoebe says. "But what if he's just too big a star?"

This idiot? 

No one is too a big of a star for my kids. Not even the sun.

"Trust me, you want autographs, you'll get autographs," I say.

I straighten the collar of Phoebe's red peacoat that's all ruffled up at back, wondering how it got so messed up just standing here, when I notice movement. Then, suddenly, black eyes meet gray in a standoff until one enemy strikes.

"Owe!" I pull back my finger after the rodent bites. "Phoebe, you brought Chester?"

"Yes," she says as the little shit jumps up on her shoulder. He's wearing a suit identical to mine—bells and all. Only, somehow, he looks more manly in it.  Maybe it's my blood in his teeth.

"Why did you do that?" I ask her as I suck my finger.

"He needs to ask Santy for presents, too." She shrugs.

"What does he want this year?" I ask.

"A rainbow feather coat and a daisy hat," she says. "Some boy perfume that smells like boy flowers and a new Audi."

"What's wrong with his last R8?"

"He's too fat for the seat," she says. "The wheel pushes on his belly and then makes him fart."

Chester sputters some obscenities my way and then crawls back in her jacket. And I'm left pondering what boy perfume with boy flowers smells like—and Chester's fat car farts.

"Uncle Taylor what are you asking Santa for for Christmas?" Teddy asks him.

He thinks about it for a moment, looking off into the mall lights and low hanging fake wreaths, like he's dreaming the impossible dream, and then cuts his eyes back down to Teddy again. "Spark plugs," he states matter-of-factly.

Taylor and his car parts.

This heavy-set woman, who has a felt Christmas tree stuck on her sweater and a necklace of incessantly blinking tree lights, keeps looking back at me and smiling like she's a cat who may want to eat my canary.

Actually, I think she's admiring my suit.

"Merry Christmas," I finally say, in a fuck off manner, when I feel like she's undressing me in her mind to see if I'm wearing Christmas boxers that match my jacket.

"I know who you are." She grins and those damn lights blink. When she brushes some of that overly-permed mop of her hair back, I see she's got a matching set on her earlobes. She's the living embodiment of an ugly Christmas sweater party.

"I don't think so." I look away. This woman could only be more annoying if she was Tilly. I have to do a double take to make sure she's not.

"The security around you..." She motions to Taylor, and Sawyer in the distance, who's suspiciously eying every patron as they enter the line. "You have the lovely wife and kids, your expensive suit."

I knew she liked the suit.

"I won't alert the crowd," she says, motioning to the throngs of bystanders who are stilling looking for the cookie man, "but I just want to tell you, my entire lawn furniture business runs on Windows." She winks, as if the secret is safe with us.

Windows?

Oh hell, she thinks I'm Bill Gates. Why do people always think that? I could bench press that little shit at the gym. His specs only come up to my pecs.

"Mom, when do we get to go to the Hot Dog on a Stick?" Snot Nosed Kid asks as he turns back to her. Of course that child is her offering to society.

The lights dim. At first, I fear we're having a power outage. I'm about to get the family to run when I hear the music start. Drums and a jingle dance beat. An amateur fog machine. The kids all rhythmically applauding like they know what's about to happen.

Oh fuck.

"Ginger Jack! Ginger Jack!" my kids start chanting, along with the others in line, when he appears again, this time out of a red and green smoke, accompanied by five girls in matching female equivalent cookie costumes, under strobe lights.

"What is going on?" I ask the kids.

"It's Ginger Jack and the Snaps!" Teddy says.

"He's gonna sing The Christmas Cookie Carol!" Phoebe says.

Oh my god, he's going to sing and dance. My worst nightmare is coming true. 

All the kids cheer for him, even my baby twin sons, like he's some sort of rock star, as he sings this repetitive jingle about being a cookie on a plate for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. How this is his life's goal or something—to be the gingerbread cookie sacrificed to the big man for the best night of the year. I can't even understand half of what he's saying. It's all drowned out by this blaring music coming from old speakers that sound like people have kicked them, and all the kids singing along. The only good thing about this mess is that they stopped playing Jingle Bells.

I have to say it, Tilly puts on a better production than this.

When he finishes, everyone cheers, especially me.

"Taylor," I nudge him. "Get his attention and bring him over." I may think he's a disaster, but my kids want to meet him. And when they want something, I make it happen.

"Yes, sir." Taylor says, then rushes up to him.

They exchange a few words. Ginger Jack waves an iced paw and backs away, like he's leaving to go back stage again. Taylor looks pissed. Not taking no for an answer, Taylor grabs him by the cookie arm.

Oh fuck.

Ginger Jack fights him to get away and there are gasps from the crowd as Taylor tries to wrestle him down.

"Christian, what is he doing with Ginger Jack?" Ana asks.

"Getting me some autographs," I say.

Finally, the scuffle subsides and Taylor manages to drag him my way.

I feel like I'm in a twisted holiday themed mafia movie all of a sudden.

"I'm so sorry to surprise you like that," I say to Ginger Jack as Taylor brings him over, like a war criminal. "Taylor, it's fine." I hold up a hand. "I'll handle it from here."

"Yes, sir." He backs away but keeps his eye trained on the cookie clown.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, shaking.

"We just wanted to meet you," I say. "My son and daughter would like a picture and an autograph." I motion down to Teddy and Phoebe who are jumping up and down with excitement.

"Well, we don't take personal shots in line—" he says, straightening himself, and I slip him a quick fifty. It's difficult, as he doesn't have fingers, but he bends his paw and grabs it. "Except for very special little cookies! What item shall I sign?" He points to one of the Ginger Snap Girls over his shoulder, who's pushing this enormous cart of his merchandise.

I just gave him a fifty! He wants me to buy something additional now?

This place really has a racket going. Not only do these photos with Santa cost half of the every man's paycheck, they're selling t-shirts, sports bottles and all sorts of other paraphernalia with that Cookie Sack Jack's face on it. He's even got an apron that says: Kiss The Kooky Cookie. What a fucking nightmare.

"What do you kids want?" I ask them.

"I want the inflatable Cookie Kingdom!" Teddy says. 

"I want the Cookie Bake Oven!" Phoebe says. "With the add-on fudge factory."

Even Chester sticks his head out, eyeing that Twelve Days of Christmas Cookies set-up.

"Fine, we'll take those and t-shirts for the whole family for you to sign," I say.

"Oh splendid!" he says, doing his cookie jig now. When money talks, he walks.

"Uh, I think we'll just take the t-shirts," Ana says, giving me the eye.

"Ahh, Mom," Teddy says. "Cookie Kingdom has the battle of the pretzels in it." Whatever that means.

"And mine is the oven that bakes Christmas cookies!" Phoebe says. "How will we make them for Santy?"

"Yeah, we have to have cookies on Christmas Eve for Santa," I say to Ana. "Didn't you listen to the song?"

"We're teaching the kids about patience and effort, remember?" she whispers. No patience for my efforts.

"Fine," I say and then turn back to Ginger Jack. "We'll just take the t-shirts now." Ana smiles, but when she looks away to tend to the babies, I whisper to the cookie man, "Wrap up the rest for later." I slip him another fifty and my Amex to swipe.

Hey, that's teaching them patience. They have to wait an entire afternoon.

After getting photos and iced paw prints stamped on shirts—and what feels like nine years and a hole dug to China—we finally make it to the front.

I watch as these two elves escort Sweater Mother and her snot nosed disgrace up to Santa.

Of course Sweater Mother takes another nine years trying to pick out how many pictures she wants of her little snot head, who is currently asking Santa for some sort of an assault rifle. From the looks of this kid, I don't think it's a toy. How big is he, anyway? What is he, thirteen going on twenty-four?

"What package do you want?" one of the elves shouts at me, holding an iPad. I give him a look.

"All of it," I say.

"All of what?"

"All of it." I motion to the billboard with all the package listings for photos.

"We have choices," he says. "You gotta make choices."

"We all do," I say and give his elf getup the once over. "Some make better ones than others."

"Christian!" Ana whisper yells at me.

"What? We're discussing photographs?" I try to give her a who, me? look, but she knows who the hell I am and I'm lucky she married me anyway.

"What's the best value?" Ana asks him, trying to smooth over our conversation.

The best value? We're worth over twenty-five billion now and she wants the value pack? Of course, that's one thing I love about her, this never changes. She still clips coupons on Sundays and saves pennies in jars to stick through the Coin Star machine. I had to draw the line when she wanted the babies to wear Teddy's hand-me-downs. In my house, nobody wears anyone else's clothes.

Chester concurs.

"Let's just get the one with the most pictures," I say.

"One per kid or the four together?" the elf asks. This little shit is impatient. You'd think working at the Santa Claus set-up, you'd be required to have a jolly air.

"Separately and together," I say. "The whole family wants one as well." I give him a look and he gives me one in return. "Why do you think I'm in this suit?"

"I'm not here judging your personal life, I'm here to serve Santa. And Santa doesn't take photo requests from adults." I pull out another fifty and push it into his hand. "Usually." He folds the bill up and stuffs it in his leather side pouch. "But this can be an exception." These cronies can so easily be bought off. That's why my pockets are constantly stuffed with bribing cash. 

"Santa!" the kids say, rushing up to jolly old man as we all take the stage. Jesus, the lights are blaring up here. I almost feel like I've died and I'm crossing the throne to judgement. I just never thought it would be made of Christmas candy.

"Ho ho ho!" Santa says. "What adorable children we have here." He looks up at me and then to Ana. "These five must give you some trouble." He laughs and winks at her.

Winks?!

Wait, five? Did Santa just throw me some serious shade?

"Oh, they certainly are a handful, but I love them," Ana says with a smile and then looks up at me. She's teasing—and now giggling with this Mall St. Nick! I may have to find a fun way to punish her for this Santa flirtation later.

"Let's get this started," I say. "We've all been waiting a long time." I thought the kids would be entering college by the time we got up here.

"Ladies first," Santa says as he pats his lap. And, if I'm not mistaken, he's looking at Ana. That Fucker Claus. Thankfully, Phoebe barrels toward him, flies onto his lap and half knees him in the gut.

That's my girl.

"I want a new eco-to-logically sound dollhouse with a salt water pool and the prettiest garden that I could plant real flowers in and the veggies I don't ick at," she says, trying her best with the bigger words. I'm so proud—ecologically sound. "And I want new princess dresses for all my dolls and unicorns, and a real pony..."

"Wait, now. That's a lot of stuff for a little girl," he says and I give him the eye. These fucking Santas are always trying to downsize dreams.

"How about we see what the elves can work up?" Santa says to her and then motions for the photo to be taken.

"Wait, Chester needs new clothes that I made a list of." She pulls it out from her pocket and hands it to him. "And his car is too skinny for him this year. He has to let Barbie drive it now and he sits in the trunk where his belly sticks out to get air."

"Is Chester your brother?" Santa asks, looking at the long list, and then up at Teddy.

"No, he's my hamster and best friend." She thinks about it. "But sometimes he's my Daddy's brother. When we have tea parties. 'Cuz they're both princes." She's right, Chester and I have an ever evolving family tree and royal lineage.

"Oh that's nice, but are you sure he likes to wear all these clothes?" Santa asks.

Like a Liberace on cue, Chester pops his head out, all decked out in his suit, and Santa nearly loses his shit.

"Oh my!" he says with the fright of the demons in his eyes. It's a designer clothed hamster, calm down.

"This is Chester," Phoebe says as he scampers down her arm and into her hand. "And Chester, this is Santa Claus." Chester mutters something in rat speak. Santa looks like he's currently taking a rough shit, looking at that rodent.

"Picture!" one of the elves yells and they immediately take the shot. Phoebe's smiling, Santa's eyes are bugged, and Chester's on his hind legs, giving the camera a flash. His shirt is untucked and he's showing his hairy belly as he waves his hands around. He looks like my brother at our wedding trying to catch the garter.

"Next!" the elf yells.

"It's your turn, Teddy," Ana says, and he runs up.

"And what do you want little boy?" Santa says to Teddy, once he's sitting on his knee.

"I want a submarine and a rocket," Teddy says. He keeps swinging his legs, kicking Santa in the shins. I can't say I'm not amused by this.

"Oh, a toy submarine. That's a wonderful idea," Santa says. "If you stop kicking Santa, you may just get it." Santa's savage.

Teddy stops. "No, a real one!"

"A real submarine?" Santa asks and Teddy nods. "Oh, I don't think that's possible—"

"Don't worry, Santa's got it covered," I say to Teddy and then glare at Santa.

"Christian, please don't start anything," Ana says.

"I'm not. I just want Santa to know what he's giving them."

"Picture!" the elf yells and snaps one off.

The babies start fussing as soon as we pick them up for their stroller and they're really wailing when we put them on Santa's lap. I was afraid of this. Teddy hated Santa until like two years ago. Baby Phoebe pulled his beard off. It wasn't until they fully understood that he gave gifts that they were open minded to this situation.

I'm still not open minded to it. I'll never be comfortable with my kids sitting on an old man's lap for presents. I have to have two eyes glued on the fucker at all times.

"Let's just hurry this along so we can get a picture," I say as Archie spits up all over my sleeve. The bells are more than ringing now. They're dripping with mashed peas.

"Okay, lets all get into the positions we rehearsed," I say as I stand in the back next to Ana. Phoebe and Teddy file in, one on each side.

"Picture," the elf yells out and we all straighten as he leans in to press the button.

This is going to be my most prized possession. A photo of my family—my wife and four babies—all together at Christmas, in matching outfits.

"Chester!" Phoebe yells, and before I can stop the flash, I see the little rodent jump and take a dive right onto Santa's head.

Santa screams. The babies wail. Phoebe grabs for Chester, who jumps off of Santa, and starts high tailing it across the candy cane village to the food court. Teddy chases after them both, because he's a tornado chaser.

"Kids!" I yell as Taylor and I take off after them. And just as we race down the stairs to the floor of the mall, just out front of Santa's village, the lights go down again and the red and green fog appears.

Oh shit.

Ginger Jack starts his song as we stand paralyzed at center stage.

This is why I hate the fucking mall.

#######

"Santa looks like someone grabbed him by the nut sack," I say to Ana as I look through all of the  seventy-two copies of the pictures we purchased, as we cuddle on the couch in our den. We have every size and paper holiday frame. We even have a Christmas tree ornament. It's more like Halloween terror from the look on Santa's face, but still.

"The kids all look so cute," Ana says, pointing to one.

"Cute?" I say. "The babies are screaming, Phoebe's diving toward Chester and Teddy's a blur." That little shit Chester. I had to convince the mall cops that he wasn't vermin, so they wouldn't call out the exterminator before we got to him. Of course, he had a designer suit on, which helped his case. Not many rats hang around the sewer in Versace. Well, maybe Hollywood, but not Seattle. We ended up finding him at the Cinnabon.

"You're very tense after today," she says as she squeezes my neck and then my shoulders.

"I really am," I say. "But, I think I know what could relieve some of my holiday tension. A round of this." I give her a light smack on the side of her ass.

"You're punishing me? For what?" She nibbles her lip. She loves it.

"Flirting with Santa Claus."

"Flirting with Santa Claus?" She scrunches her nose.

"I think your fraternization deserves a few good spanks."

She giggles. "Maybe so, Mr. Grey." She grins as I lean in to kiss her.

"I'm just glad we're home and I'm away from all those screaming kids and that music," I murmur against her lips. "That Christmas Cookie Carol is a fucking nightmare."

"Well, we've seen Santa, so I don't think you'll have to hear that song again."

"Hey, Dad, Mom, it's time for our show!" Teddy says as he and Phoebe race to the TV to turn it on. Ana and I pull apart.

"What show?" I ask, but before he responds I have my answer.

The drums. That blaring jingle beat. The red and green smoke.

Oh hell.

"It's Cookie Time!" Phoebe says, throwing her arms up.

"You were saying, Mrs. Grey?" I look to Ana, who laughs.

"Maybe just one more time," she says and kisses my cheek.

Yep, Ginger Jack is going to haunt me all season long.