Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Merry Christmas Poo Poo Head

I was a cute kid. I had blonde hair that my mom insisted on putting in a sprout on top of my head and big blue eyes. I also had chubby cheeks and a big smile. I used all of the above to work in my advantage. Mom recalls that I was a chronic liar... I say I just had a very active imagination.

My older brother, also a cute kid, was the more quiet of the two. He had good manners and loved to make our mom happy and proud. I liked playing in the dirt and running around. And testing boundaries.

When I was 3-ish years old, which was old enough to talk but not old enough to grasp the scope of all of my actions, I learned a new phrase. "Poo poo head." I don't know where I learned it, pre-school perhaps, but most definitely not from my older brother. Because he was a good boy. I was the rebel.

As a quirky 3-ish year old, I would call people "poo poo head" and then get reprimanded by my mom for doing so. She was being a good mom... making sure I didn't go out into the world with a potty mouth. (Get it? Potty mouth? Poo Poo head? Nevermind.)

So upon my 3rd-ish Christmas my Mom got the call (I believe from one of my grandparents) that Santa was on the radio and was taking calls from kids and talking to them about what they wanted for Christmas. Of course, as every proud mother, mine wanted my brother and me to shine. So she dialed the number for the "North Pole" and our voices went live over the radio waves. My brother went first.

My brother got on the radio and in his nicest voice and best manners he carefull articulated to Santa what he wanted for Christmas. I don't remember what he said, because I was probably distracted picking my nose or something. The point is, he was very careful to be NICE to Santa.

Then it was my turn. I got to talk to Santa. I was allowed to tell him anything I wanted for Christmas.

"ROLLERSKAAAAAAAAAAATES!" I yelled into the phone... not bothering with greetings or promises to Santa that I had been good all year. Then I lowered my voice, and I am sure a mischevious grin crossed my face and I said the dreaded words my mom had been working so hard to remove from my vocabulary. "Poo poo head."

On the radio.... the whole town listening. I yelled my demands at Santa and then called him a poo poo head. Apparently I had not grasped the understanding of the Naughty or Nice list. I am sure it was not my mom's proudest moment. I am not sure what she did, but I am sure she either A)grabbed the phone out of my hand and profusely apologized to Santa or B)simply hung up on the North Pole.

I vote B.

Later that month, I am sure I did get rollerskates from Santa. Of course, my brother got whatever he wanted as well. The lesson my 3-ish year old self learned from the ordeal? Even if you call Santa "poo poo head" you still get rollerskates for Christmas.

P.S. Upon writing this post I realized that I still wear my hair in a sprout-like fashion on top of my head. Thankfully, I have learned to no longer call people poo poo head.

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