December 23, 2011

I kept waiting for the melt down, the line stretching around Santa's workshop both looking like and moving like a snail.  Not my little man.  He had his eyes on the prize.  He waited with more patience than I knew his three-year-old being could possibly have until it was finally his turn.  Finally.  

After waiting in line for close to an hour, the little girl in line ahead of Channing lost it.  She took one look at Santa in his big, red chair and started to wail.  Her dad first stared in disbelief and then rolled his eyes as he suddenly found not only his daughter but himself having his photo taken with Santa.  Not Channing.  Nope.  He went about his business like he was an old pro.  He marched right up to Santa, climbed up into his lap and immediately started telling him that a) he'd been a very good boy, a fact that is mostly true and b) he wanted a workbench like Daddy's.  

And that was that.  

Our hearts filled with good cheer, we decided to top off our bellies at SmashBurger.  WM raves about their chicken sandwiches.  He should.  

Mom's malt?  Where'd it go?  I have no idea what you're talking about Dad.
Hands down, it was the best buffalo chicken sandwich I'd eaten.  We'd grabbed a hot pretzel and lemonade for Channing on our way out of the mall.  He had no interest in taking even a tiny little taste of chicken heaven.  However, he was quick to nab my chocolate malt, and he enjoyed every last bit.    

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