If you've been reading my stories for any length of time, you probably realize that my DD is a free spirit, to say the least. She's been this way roughly since birth, and probably before. After all, this is the same child who was doing the backstroke in her first ultrasound photo, arm behind her head and all. (Must have been floating on all that water they make you drink!)
Anyway, when DD was in first grade, she decided that she wanted a massaging foot spa for her gift from Santa Claus. I thought it was weird and strange for a six year old, but I wasn't doing the picking and saw no harm in it. She wrote her email to Santa and went on with her life.
A few days before Christmas, DD's school had a party with candy and gifts, along with the opportunity for the little ones to recite their gift requests to Santa. At first, the principal tried to recruit Bob into playing Santa, which he thought was a comment about his physique and caused him to be mortally offended. Thankfully, another Santa-esque Dad stepped up to the plate, and he made a fantastic Santa.
As is my habit during these school gatherings, I schmoozed around the room while DD and DH did their social thing. (We're not one of those "attached at the hip" kinds of families) Out of the corner of my eye, I noted that DD was in line to speak with Santa and have her photo taken, but really didn't think anything of it. A few moments later, DD had finished her chat with the rotund one, and Santa put up a sign, saying he was taking a much needed break.
All of a sudden, I felt a gloved hand on my elbow as Santa yanked me out into the hallway. I recognized the man under the beard as John, whose son was in the same grade as DD. His face was all red, as if he was laughing or livid, or both.
"Jeez Kathy! Couldn't you have warned me about that weird little kid of yours? I'm sitting there and 50 little girls are asking for "My Size Barbie," and your kid asks for the heated massaging foot spa! What the hell? What kind of kid wants that?"
I guessed Santa was going to leave me coal no matter how I replied, So I simply laughed at him, and offered him a cold frosty beer after he came up with the foot spa.
Christmas came, and so did the foot spa. DD has spent countless hours in the kitchen, watching me cook or bake, while she soaked her tired tootsies. When she was small, she had one of those plastic lawn chairs for foot massaging convenience, but now she's certainly big enough for a kitchen chair. I don't have to mop up water afterward anymore, either.
Then there's the rest of the story: At parochial schools in our area, elementary children get a half day off each month, usually on the first Friday. DD created a "First Friday Club," which meant that I'd take a car full of kids to a museum or some local attraction and we'd all have a great time. Several months after Christmas, the First Friday Club went to Boston's Museum of Science, which is a lot of walking for little kids.
On the ride home one little girl started to whine a bit about her sore feet. She asked DD if it would be all right to use the foot spa when we got back to our house. Immediately, I had a clan of six year old girls all wanting their feet massaged. Apparently, the foot spa had become quite the topic of conversation and all the other little girls were jealous, because all they got for Christmas was "My Sized Barbie."
Yes, everyone got a chance to have her feet massaged (except me - Mamas are definitely last in line to use a trendy toy). As the different families came to pick up their daughters, every one told me that their six year olds had been talking about the massaging foot spa nonstop since Christmas. (I bet I know what made a few lists for Santa the following year!)
Kathy N-V