The Deal with Santa 2

Mak is a foodie. An honest-to-goodness, true-blue foodie. The kind who'd rather be in a supermarket than a toy store any day. He could spend hours and hours in the aisles of a grocery if you let him. He loves crabs and lobsters and lamb and halibut. And sausages with dijon mustard. When his first tooth fell off, he seriously worried he wouldn't be able to eat. He smiles when he looks at a restaurant menu for the first time. His eyes light up when the meal arrives. He squeals if it was everything he had hoped for and more. He licks his lips to savor that one last bite. He says when food is really good he needs to close his eyes.

So it really was no shocker for any of us when we read his letter to Santa this year.

The boy wants a waffle maker. So he can top it with fresh strawberries and mangoes. And cream. So doesn't have to wait for our weekly Friday afternoon date in Starbucks to have it.

Santa... you there?

The Deal with Santa

Hard to ignore the fact that Christmas season is here. Not with the Mak-Tatos bugging me to put up the tree since bloody November. Complete with the whole guilt trip of who already had a Christmas tree while we didn't. The tree finally came up with a little help from ever-reliable Kuya Anton (the family's in-house Martha Stewart) who came armed with twin reindeers fresh from production for the boys to decorate.

The boys can now lay off the guilt trip even if Mak thinks "we have too little decorations". That boy wants the house to look like Christmas threw up all over us. Boohoo. Wrong mom. Technicality on our choice of decor aside, it's officially Christmas over here.

And then there's the whole business about Santa. As parents: Do we ? Should we? My parents and grandparents were all out with the whole Santa deal way back when. So, yes, over here, until the time is right, Santa "comes" over in the middle of the night, Christmas Eve when else, always while we are all asleep, gulps some of that chocolate drink we leave for him and brings THE presents. Assuming they were nice not naughty, of course. MammaMia used to tell us if we were naughty Santa would give us carbon. Spanish for a word I never quite figured out what exactly it was but assumed naughty kids received a sackful of charcoal on Christmas Eve. That was enough to keep me nice all year. (yeah right)

So anyway, with the tree up and the Christmas spirit in full force, it was time for the boys to write Santa Claus. Imagine how annoyed I was when I saw this from Tato. No hi. No hello. No please.

This was his sweet little note last year. What the hell happened in the last 365 days?

My blood seriously reaching boiling point, I told him there was no way I was sending that letter. And then I got this.

Change of mind with toy choice. No change with that ultra- fresh approach. One teeny tiny step closer to getting charcoal. Then the final draft.

The pleases and thank-yous and niceties all accounted for, along with the request for a ridiculously popular toy that isn't even available on this side of the world. Good luck, Santa. Then again there's always Santa's trusty little relative elves from the other parts of the world. Then again there's always carbon.

Dear Santa

Tato has mailed his letter:

Mak has made his list (and checked it twice!):

Christmas is finally here. That was fast.

You could say I was one of the lucky ones. I knew Santa. I shared priceless moments with him once a year, every year, for about a decade. The scene was always the same. A party at my grandparents' home with family, friends of family, and friends of friends of family. Typical party fare, the usual chit-chat with the not-so-usual special guest. Sometime in the middle of merry-making there'd be whispers that Santa's bell was just heard from a distance. There'd be a hush in the room and I would get butterflies in my stomach. The excitement too much for someone so little.

Check out the look on the kid's face. That's BigBro behind shocked kid looking pretty star-struck too

As the sound of the bell clanging would get louder and louder, our grins would grow wider and wider. Santa's "helpers" would open the garage gate and there he'd be. What a vision, I tell you. Snow in his boots, trademark white beard, sacks filled with presents, a twinkle in his eyes and the sweetest smile you ever saw. I could have sworn I knew those eyes and smile from somewhere.

Santa and me (at 2 years old). That's oh-so-glamorous original Nana having a holiday drink, by the way.

Some years later when a certain grown-up-who-gave-birth-to-me slipped big time and told me a little bit more about Santa than I cared to ever know, I became his helper. I was suddenly the little elf with the big job and the biggest secret. I still got butterflies in my gut when he came. The excitement still a tad much for someone not-so-little.

Finally Santa's helper. That's me in the white dress taking my job a little too seriously.

Santa and LilBro. BigBro and a buddy in the background being Santa's elves

Dear Santa, I wish the Mak-Tatos get the chance to know you the way I did. I wish my dear old Abuelo (who always had to rush out suddenly for work those afternoons) could have met you. You would have gotten along brilliantly. And I wish you got my letter thanking you for the memories.

Wishing you and your families another Christmas filled with beautiful memories.