Sometimes the fodder is hand delivered to your door

My father left me a message yesterday on my answering machine. Mr. C got to it before I did. "Your Dad called this morning," he said.

"What did he say?"

"You'll want to listen to the message yourself," he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Sure, my father lives a bit left of center most of the time, but we're used to his idiosyncracies, I could not imagine what would be so funny on that message that my husband would not relay it to me. So I picked up the phone and dialed in.

"Hi, T__. Listen, P__ (his girlfriend) bought an outfit for Chicky. She thought you'd like to have it for Chicky to wear on Christmas day. It's a Santa outfit with a hat and everything."

A Santa outfit.

Great.

The message went on from there, but honestly I stopped listening after I heard the words "Santa outfit". I sat, slack jawed, while the rest played and Mr. C grinned. I couldn't get out of this one. How could I diplomatically say thanks but no thanks? I didn't want to put my active toddler into a red polyester velvet-like ensemble on Christmas Day. I had already purchased clothes for her to wear, clothes that would be appropriately festive yet would hold up to a day full of cookies, cakes and candy canes. An outfit that Chicky would not protest when I tried to put it on her and would not itch her delicate toddler skin or give her a rash. But someone else went out and bought her a special outfit that could only be worn once, so it had to be worn. A bit presumptuous, yes, but what can I do? I'm stuck.

My father and his girlfriend delivered the Santa suit to us this morning and it is as awful as I had imagined. A jacket-like shirt with fake belt, elastic waist pants and a hat with a white pompom, all trimmed with fluffy fake fur usually reserved for dime store teddy bears and all 100% Polyester. P.'s parting words were, "I can't wait to see her in it."

I can't even put the hat on Chicky's head without her breaking into terrified sobs. Getting her into the rest of the outfit is going to be so much fun.

Mr. C laughed over the message but when I told him that Chicky would have to wear the Santa clothes he stopped laughing. Yes, she has to wear it. My father's girlfriend had the best of intentions when she purchased it and she is genuinely excited to see my daughter toddle in the door on December 25 decked out like a miniature St. Nick.

Ho ho ho. Won't that be great?

Great.

Before my mother died she would often tell me stories of the purple fur coat that my grandmother had bought for me to wear on one of my first Easters. It was unseasonably warm that day, much too warm for a fur coat, yet my mother insisted that I wear it because not only was it a gift but it was an expensive gift. Apparently I cried the whole time because I was hot and uncomfortable but she would not take it off of me. I was wearing that coat, dammit, sweat and tears be damned. History does have a way of repeating itself, doesn't it?

These are the things we do to our children when someone gives us an inappropriate gift. I won't force Chicky to wear the outfit if she truly hates it but we're going to give it a try. If we can get her to leave it on for even 10 minutes we'll chalk it up as a victory and move on. Maybe we'll even snap a few pictures to save for posterity. And many years from now I'll tell her stories of the year I made her wear a Santa suit because someone bought it for her and it had to be worn. Hopefully we'll all have a good laugh over it.

I'd love to include a picture of my daughter here in her new clothes so we all can enjoy together but I still can't get it near her without Chicky running away in fear. But I'm going to keep trying. She's got to wear that outfit, dammit, just for five minutes whether she likes it or not.



Even if it is the most horrible thing I've seen in a long time. Oh lord, it is awful.