I don't laugh at pain. If I'm forced to watch an episode of American's Funniest Home Videos I wince through the majority of it. I don't participate in practical jokes and laughing at the expense of someone else's potential discomfort is not a laugh I want to have. I want to die inside for others when I see they are embarrassed. It's just how I'm wired. I really wish I wasn't. But I am. That being said, I LOVE screaming Santa pics. I mean – I LOVE THEM!
Nothing says, "Happy Birthday Jesus" like taking your toddler to sit on the lap of a sweaty hairy stranger and expecting them to smile! Nothing! I mean we hesitate allowing Aunt Virginia access to the kids because she is questionable but we line up and pay for the traumatic stranger experience with Santa. And we stand a short distance away taunting our child with the safety of our arms but we don't rescue them until the shot is snapped.
Since I am a therapist, I will tell you that never in the history of my practice or in conversations with colleagues has any person walked in the door (or even mentioned in passing during a session) the trauma of the Santa experience. There isn't a class for it during therapy training and there is no diagnosis in the manual that includes it. So I say "get the shot"!
Oh! That shot!
That priceless, precious, painful shot! I LOVE THEM! Here's ours.
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