Perhaps my earliest of all Christmas memories was the year of the “Ball-Headed Baby Jesus.” It went a little something like this…

“And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?” Santa asked me as I stood several feet away from this bearded, fat man I had grown terribly afraid of, and I said nothing. He asked again, and I clutched my mother’s leg, hiding behind her.

“I bet I know what Mama wants for Christmas this year!” He said as he gave my mother a suspicious wink.

“I’ll bet she wants nothing more than a picture of her pretty little girl sitting right here, on my knee!” He gave his red-velveted leg a slap as if that might change my mind, which ironically had quite the opposite effect.

I began to whimper, tears quietly streamed down my face, but Santa decided he wasn’t going to give up that easy. He then crouched down from his golden throne to get more on my level and produced a red and white peppermint stick out of nowhere, which honestly only added to my fear. Mr. Claus then proceeded to wave the piece of candy back and forth, hoping to put me under some kind of Santa hypnosis, I’m guessing. The fact of the matter was there was no surplus supply in all of Candyland that would get me to come within three feet of that man, let alone sit on his lap.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit on my knee?” The line behind me was now backed up around the mall escalator and increased by the minute, as both parents and kids became highly agitated as Santa and my mom continued to coax me into a quick photograph.

At this point, Santa and my mom should have called it quits. Period. I used to tell her that every time she’d tell this story, but alas, they did not.

And then “Santa” made a pretty bad judgment call.  

Now, keep in mind, this obviously wasn’t the REAL Santa. The REAL Santa would have known how ugly this would have turned out. I like to believe this fella was one of the helpers (you know, the part-time guys whom Santa sends out to cover those mall shift hours while he’s busy conducting the important North Pole business), and it was more than obvious he was a new hire.  For the record, I do believe he had good intentions, but a stunt like that, nowadays, would have landed him in a free overnight stay downtown, if you know what I mean.

Santa stood up, bent down, and, impulsively and with no warning, whisked me up into his arms! Once, when I was a few years older, I found myself doing the same thing with a feral kitten; both instances produced just about the same results.

For a split second, my mother was horrified. As she quickly packed me up to leave the mini winter wonderland, almost in tears herself, she whispered under her breath, “Well then, I guess Santa won’t know what to bring you this Christmas.”

Hold up. I seriously hadn’t thought of that. I quickly sucked up the tears and yelled as clear and as loud as I could my only desired gift that Christmas.  

“A ball-headed Baby Jesus! A ball-headed Baby Jesus!”

My mom said an intense silence fell over the winter wonderland as the little devil child who had pretty much gone berserk on Santa moments earlier now shouted back at him something pertaining to the Baby Jesus. Santa motioned for his next child visitor to stop and motioned me to return. My mom must have been sweating bullets at this point.

At a safe distance, I then explained to Santa that the only thing I wanted for Christmas was a “ball-headed Baby Jesus.” And maybe a hat, just in case his head ever got cold.

 I ended up apologizing to Santa and evidently, we were all good, because sure enough, that Christmas morning, under the tree was a large rectangular box and inside was Jesus, “ball-headed” and all. Santa even included a baby bonnet.

At 3 am this morning, as I wrapped presents and thought about how insanely behind I am this year, the year of my “ball-headed Baby Jesus” came to mind. I still remember that Christmas and how literally that was all I could think about or talk about and how all I wanted was a “ball-headed Baby Jesus” of my very own. I also thought about times in my life, where Jesus was the furthest thing from my mind. And then there are the times when life gets so busy and I get caught up in the deadlines and obligations, especially this time of year, and I let that same Jesus, that baby who is the reason for this very season, fall to the wayside.

It was a good year, the year of “ball-headed Baby Jesus,” and I couldn’t be more thankful for that 3 am revelation this morning.

As for my mom’s picture of Santa and me, it never happened. But then again, after that year, she never tried. It wasn’t until I had my own kids that Mom received her first Santa picture, and she proudly displayed each succeeding years’ photograph on the wall year-round.