Living with Santa Claus

My Santa Does Not Text!

          If you have ever met my husband, you would think that he does look quite a bit like the man of the month, Mr. S. Claus.  I have a secret to share with you.  I believe that he really is Santa Claus.  And that makes me, Mrs. S. Claus.  How can that be?  Read on...
          Every year my husband spends hours in his workshop building special Christmas gifts for his family.  This year was no exception.  Last week, after making his list and checking it twice, he headed out to the "shop" to make sure his wood supplies were adequate and his tools sharpened.
        On the weekend, we heard him sawing and planing and sanding and nailing.  He emerged only for tea and cookies,  his white beard covered in sawdust. 
         And what did I do all this time?  What every Mrs. S. Claus does when her husband is busy, I was in the kitchen baking old-fashioned date cookies, from a recipe passed down from my husband's mother.  I measured and mixed, rolled and cut, dolloped and closed, and baked and tested.  Yum!
         So as I sit comfortably on my new office chair (an early gift from Mr. S Claus himself), I am reflecting on the rest of the story. 
         This morning, the cookies were stored, all snug in their containers, waiting for Christmas to arrive.  However, the gifts from the "shop" still needed "a little work."  Sure, the cutting and planing and sanding and  nailing were finished, but there were several more jobs to complete, and they were elf jobs, not Santa jobs. 
         After searching high and low for the elves in our home and finding none,  I came to the conclusion that Mr. S. Claus expected Mrs. S. Claus to complete these elf jobs.  Ho ho ho, so I spent a pleasant morning, afternoon and evening drawing and painting, printing and painting and cleaning up after both myself and S. Claus.  That's right, I not only washed the brushes and cleaned up the paint gobs, I got to sweep out the workshop!
         Alas, I shall not complain.  My Santa Hubby cooked a lovely dinner and as we were just getting ready to serve, there was a call from a neighbour who needed a ride home from a flat tire incident.  Thinking I would hop in the sleigh while he and his brother sat down to a delicious meal, I went for the keys.  That was not to be.  In fact, Santa Hubby hopped in the sleigh (a.k.a. red Jeep) and flew to the rescue.
         Such is the joy of living with Mr. S. Claus.  I wouldn't trade him for all the money, gifts or cookies in the world. 

Until next time,


Bee Rich