. . . it will prolong the need to tell your children that Santa doesn’t exist.
AKA The Continuing Saga of Butterscotch – The Horse that Needs a New Home
Santa’s dead, folks. He died. And now children everywhere are going to have to live with it. And it’s all your fault, Big Meanie.
This photo of the boy crying at the tombstone was the image I saw in my head as Jon and I drove to Target the Thursday night before Christmas to load up our Butterscotch Pony for Babs.
I remember thinking to myself, “I’ll be damned if I have to explain to her this year that Santa doesn’t exist” (or at least doesn’t really bring you what you want).
$275 and a month and a half later, I’m still glad I did it, even if the thing is just sitting and collecting dust at the moment. (Smokey had a good chew on the carrot Butterscotch likes to robotically munch on and Babs quickly yanked on, and broke, the nifty red halter that came with it, ruining Butterscotch’s value on ebay but giving both of them the joy of destroying perfectly good items. I’m not so old that I don’t remember how much fun that was.)
The look on her face when she ripped that box open really was worth it, though, dust or no dust. In hindsight, I wish I would have videotaped it. It was definitely one of those days when I felt like I’d done something good.
Not one to miss the chance to allow my life to serve as a warning to others (and because deep down I’m an attention whore — whoo-hoo, look at my hits jump in the google rankings!) I foolishly, according to Jon, allowed myself to be interviewed by some man claiming to be a New York reporter who found out that I was one of those parents who was willing to hand over my credit card for a toy that costs more than toys should cost — proof that if you blog about something they’re interested in, they will find you.
The story was picked up by a couple of papers, allowing Babs and me our 2007 five-seconds of fame, but this version is my favorite, mostly because it kept the last sentence (which was dropped by others) that allowed me to share my money-doesn’t-buy-happiness philosophy, even though you’d never know it by how much I dropped on that silly pony.
I’m kind of like that, though. I’ll go to McDonalds for lunch and order two things from the dollar menu to save money and then turn around and drive Jon to the airport on his birthday when he thinks he’s going a couple hours down the road and fly him across country instead because he keeps talking about how he wishes he could show me his old stomping grounds. I guess that while money can’t buy happiness, it can still buy some pretty terrific experiences.
If you’re in need of a pick-me-up, though, one that does not require the use of your credit card, I would highly suggest buying your own bag of balloons, finding some two-year-olds and going for it.
Another favorite of mine is to have them jump on beds while you all recite “Five little monkeys jumping on the bed. One fell off and bumped his head. Momma called the doctor and the doctor said, ‘NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED!'” And then have them fall down, on the bed of course.
It’s pure therapy, I tell ya. Just try to remove all objects that they might actually crack their heads on before you start doing this. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure!