This weekend, the boychild and I stumbled into Santa. Not the gentle Santa one finds in storybooks, with gentle “ho ho ho’s” chortling from a round-bellied, jovial old man. No, this Santa was drunk, disorderly and about 20 years old.

You see on Saturday, we found ourselves in Greenwich Village, smack dab in the middle of SantaCon – apparently a challenge to every frat boy in town to chug beer and dress up as most children’s wet dream.

But let’s backtrack a little.

After a very drunken Friday evening celebrating a dear friend’s birthday, yours truly woke up Saturday morning with the most excruciating hangover, crawled out of bed to make coffee and tend to the chillun. Martyr hubby had woken up with the babyB at 7am (winning major points, as he was majorly hungover aswell.)

Usually, our cozy family is quite happy to stay put in Brooklyn on weekends (barring the Summer, when we try to hightail it into nature as often as possible.) But December is a busy month, and last Saturday we had plans to meet up with a few other families from the boychild’s school to see a special holiday production of Seven in One Blow at the Axis Theater Company in Sheridan Square.

The next logical step in this story is to tell you all about the show and regale you with stories of how beautifully the boychild sat through the production. Especially because his mama (moi) is Ms. Theater Lover Extraordinaire.

But I have absolutely no idea whether the show was good, bad or indifferent. Because we never saw it.

Head still pounding ever so slightly, the boychild and I arrived at the theater, and found a seat in the back. I though the boychild would instantly relax, sit back and leave me to drink water in peace as he gabbed with his favorite pals from school.

Wrong! The boychild didn’t want to take off his coat or hat, and instantly started to moan that he didn’t want the show to start. As soon as the lights went down, the boychild exclaimed yelled “I want to go home!!” Repeatedly. So yours truly picked him up, fumbling to find his mittens that had dropped on the floor, and ran across the front of the stage to make a hasty escape.

We emerged from the theater to find ourselves smack dab in the middle of hundreds of Santas roaming the streets and bursting out of every visible bar.

Aghast at the possibility that my four year old’s tender vision of Santa might forever be tarnished, and somewhat resentful I myself wasn’t nursing my hangover with a beer, I froze.

Gimme one of your beers, won't you please Santa?

I needn’t have worried though, because the boychild simply said, with delight and savvy, “You know they’re not the real Santa. They’re just his helpers.”

“Absolutely right,” I replied. His very drunken, underage helpers.

In fact, stumbling into Santa-con was the best thing that could have happened.

The boychild was instantly distracted from his theater-going trauma (a ridiculous notion, I grant you), and I was distracted from my hangover by a sea of red uniforms filled with pert, 20 year old buttocks.

I shall be on high alert for Santa-con next year.

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