Santa the Impaler

Dear Bastard Santa on top of my tree,

I’ve got you. I’ve FINALLY got you. Today your fat head toppled your white body and you fell within inches of my son’s golden mop. In my mind, that makes you a safety hazard. You, my friend, must go.

Yes, I know. We have a long history together. I bought you thinking you would look great on my white and gold decorated tree. Back when I could put things like glass balls and bows and only white lights on my perfect, fragrant, pine.

Of course, my husband, being the man he is, thought you deserved to be adorned with the Marshall football helmet a friend kindly gave him as a gift. Since that fateful day when your white hair was covered in HELMET…I’ve hated you. I’ve hated you ruining my Martha aspirations. Not that I could ever really be that coordinated…but dammit, it was my first house and my first married Christmas and I was going to try. And fail. But TRY none the less.
Despite my disdain, you became a tradition. And you’ve been on top of every tree, every year, since that horrific, pretty-killing Christmas. Yes Santa, you are a pretty-killer.

Traditions are something I know a lot about. I’ve forced my husband into many of mine. Like kielbasa on Christmas Eve and pie for breakfast. Orange juice for a New Year’s toast and lighting candles at local churches when our sky is falling. So I could never have knocked you off your tree top post. Not after year 2. Certainly not after 3. Or 4. Or 5. I have a certain respect for tradition. Even when they are asinine.

It was today, when you tipped ever so slightly to the left and then tumbled, helmet first, to the ground that I realized this may be my one and only chance to kick you off the main spot on my tannenbaum. I’ve already given up the glass ornaments and the white lights and the bows and ribbons and pretty, pretty things.

I now have a certified, 100% family tree. Hand made (and much loved) ornaments, colored lights to please the children, even the soft, hand-me-down stuffed ornaments my mother made when I was young and prone to breaking things. Add in the latest diagnosis of asthma in our house, and we now have a fake tree. Not even that new tree smell to greet me as I walk in the door.
So do I leave you up there, oh Bastard Santa? Or do you get replaced with some less top-heavy object??? Do I dare tempt an ill-fated, Christmas ER trip wherein I explain to the doctor how a helmeted Claus knocked my child unconscious?

The clock is ticking, Mr. Kringle.